Our Little Paradise
by wishesatmidnight
Summary: Multi chapter fic Sherlock and John both attend Mythwater Boarding School, both struggling with their dark pasts. But can two damaged souls find solace in one another's scars? And what happens when Moriarty begins his dangerous games? Eventual Johnlock warnings: Mentions of child abuse.
1. Sins of the Father

**Chapter 1**

**The sins of the father**

John Watson stared out of the back window of his car, watching as the grey skies decorated the misted glass with icy drops. The heavy clouds made him feel even more enclosed and suffocated by the world around him.

It had been a long and tension filled drive to Mythwater Boarding school, with just himself and his father who had not uttered a single word to him since they had set off. Not that this was unusual behaviour for James Watson. Ever since he was born John had been hated by his father. His mother had died giving birth to him and John's father had channelled all his grief and pain into blaming him.

As a child John grew up knowing only hatred and bitterness, a child who didn't understand why he was resented by his own father, or why he did not have a mother like all the other kids at school. A child who never knew what it was like to be loved by someone unconditionally like a child should.

He did have Harry, but she wasn't around all that often and _daddy_ worshipped the ground she walked on and ensured that she never saw the darkness that lurked behind those blue eyes or the anger which was reserved solely for John once he'd had one too many whiskeys down at the pub.

John shifted in his seat and as he did so he felt rather than saw the piercing glare of his father on him. He kept his eyes straight with a crippling determination, resolute that he was not going to make eye contact with the foul man before him. But James Watson was having none of this and he only strengthened his glare, matching John's determination. He did get it from his father after all.

"What's the matter Johnny boy?" He uttered in a malevolent whisper. "Too scared to look your own father in the eye now?"

John ground his teeth silently, clenching his fists by his side. As a child John had tried countlessly to win the affection of his father, trying desperately to be the perfect son. Just once, he wanted to make his father smile, just once. But over time his hopes of making his father proud of him had contorted into despair and the love he felt towards the man had twisted into a dark loathing.

John used to be afraid of his father. When he towered over him menacingly, when he heard the door slam late at night after a visit to the pub and as he heard his foot-steps gracing the stairs. And john would turn his face into his pillow, hoping to drown out the world and the man who was the embodiment of evil approaching him.

"Don't ignore me now Johnny." His voice had sunk to a very low and smooth whisper now. It was also a tone recognised by John to be his most dangerous. Seeing the school down the road ahead he wondered if it was best to chance it and just jump out of the car, but as his eyes flickered to the locked door on his right his father followed his gaze and let out a low, dark laugh.

"Don't be so stupid as to think that running away will help you in life." He stopped the car and twisted round in his seat, John flinched reflexively, much to the amusement of his father. "If you can take anything from me, take only this; you can never run away from what you've done Johnny. Because no matter how fast you run, your past will always be on your back. It is a part of you. Your demons make you who you are. The sooner you learn to dance with your demons and face what you have done, the better for all of us."

"And by face up to it you mean remove myself from this world like I did mum?" He shot back heatedly, chest heaving. "You know I can't do anything about that. You know I'd give anything to bring her back. Do you not think that I don't wish it was me instead of her every single day of my life? But you know what, I have blamed myself long enough. You may always believe it was my fault. That I killed her. But it was an accident, I was a baby. I had no control over what was happening. But I will say that if it's anyone's fault, if anyone had control of what was happening, it was you." he knew that would hurt. As terrible a man he was, James Watson loved John's mother more than anything. But it was that same love that had caused such hate. He was a mere shell of a man now, the anger had taken over him like a parasite feeding off the last shreds of goodness left within him.

"Get. Out." His father's eyes had suddenly darkened, the smirk on his face had fallen, morphing into a vicious glower.

"Where were you?" John shouted, suddenly feeling empowered by his fathers momentary lapse of control. "Why couldn't you save her?! She was counting on you! She trusted you! She was carrying your baby for Christ's sake! And you know what, you're right – my demons are a part of me, but do you know what else? _I_ am a part of _you_."

John knew he had gone too far, knew what his father was about to do before he had even raised his fist. His hand hit John's cheek with an almighty force that caused his body to be thrown back into the seat and his head to hit the glass.

"GET. OUT." His father roared, clenching the fist he had used to hurt his son.

John, head pounding, grabbed his case and opened the car door which was now unlocked. He shuffled out with as much grace as he could, trying to remain neutral as he stepped out onto the pavement. He then closed the door slowly and without a backwards glance, began walking towards p school gates, limping slightly but not from physical trauma, no this was a different kind of wound. This was a wound to his soul, awoken by the beating which was a reminder of countless nights spent awake in fear. He swayed now and then from the blurring of his vision and pain pulsing through his veins, which magnified on reaching his heart.

But John Watson was not the type to fall apart under pressure; no, he picked himself up, dusted himself off and carried on.

Leaning against the side of a tree, on the opposite side of the road, Sherlock Holmes; a tall boy with dark curls and large, piercing blue eyes was watching as the mysterious boy hobbled down the road towards the school. Sherlock had seen everything. Heard it all too through the open window in the front seat opposite that foul man who claimed to be a father.

Sherlock wasn't the type of person to experience empathy for many people. But watching the way that the boy had stood up to this man who was obviously a very dangerous piece of work, Sherlock had seen something quite equally admirable and painful at the same time. Leaning away from the tree, eyes never leaving the peculiar boy in front of him he followed him, remaining a fair distance behind, simply observing.


	2. This Little Paradise of Ours

Chapter 2

**This little paradise of ours.**

Sherlock watched the boy he had been following closely as his demeanour quickly morphed from broken to mending in the space of a few seconds.

Though he was in obvious pain, he straightened his back, squared his shoulders and walked towards the boarding school, which was about to become his home for the next few months, with a determination that was rarely found amongst many.

_Soldier complex then. Doesn't easily give in. Strong minded._

Sherlock hadn't seen a person worth his full interest for quite some time. He supposed this was why he was so intrigued by the boy with blonde hair. He had been _so _bored this summer, stuck at home alone with Mycroft _babysitting_. Father had been away somewhere on business and Mummy was unwell and so spent most of her time in her room.

Some days she would come out and go down stairs to join Sherlock in the garden while he was conducting some sort of extravagant experiment on grass. She wouldn't say anything, just sit with him and watch. She just liked to be with him, to feel his presence. It reassured her that she was still here, that life was still going, time was still turning. The disease she had attacked her mind, isolated her from the world. And being there with Sherlock reminded her that she was still a part of it.

Neither would speak, but both would know.

Sherlock enjoyed her presence too, his mother was different to other members of his family. She didn't bother or distract him during experiments. She wasn't nosey or prying, she simply observed and accepted what she saw. And Sherlock loved her for it.

He watched as John paused at the gates and turned his head around reflexively. He shot an accusatory glance around behind him.

_Paranoid_. Sherlock noted. _Constantly aware of people around him, always watching his back. Obviously a side affect of an abusive childhood._

Sherlock wondered how hard it would be to cure someone of this paranoia.

_I could do it. Distract him enough from his past. And it has been such an awfully boring summer, it would be an interesting experiment. _

Sherlock decided that was the sole reason he had for following him but there was something at the back of his mind that was pulling him towards the boy also, only Sherlock couldn't quite figure out what it was.

Sherlock too paused at the gates. But he had stopped to get his pack of cigarettes out of his coat's inside pocket. He was heading into his fifth year now and yet the teachers were still just as keen to "save him from an early grave" but he simply saw their protests as a waste of his time, he supposed he was too far gone now anyway, there probably wasn't much to salvage regarding his lungs.

Therefore he resulted to slipping behind the little group of trees and bushes to the left of the school gates to have his morning smoke.

After searching for his cigarettes he looked up, trying to locate John again, only to find that he had vanished.

At first he was quite dissapointed but then he decided he would find John again later, now was time for smoking before school started.

Sherlock sifted through the trees expertly, making his way to his favourite spot; a little circle surrounded by trees, quite isolated but cosy all the same. It also had a small, slightly withered bench in the centre. It had been a small paradise for Sherlock throughout his years at Mythwater.

But as he approached the entrance to the little circle he heard something. Footsteps, like some one was moving around. The only other person who had discovered this place was Anderson, a foul boy who had followed Sherlock there hoping to find something Sherlock was hiding which might have been valuable.

Sherlock stopped suddenly in anger, then marched forward calling; "Anderson I told you what would happen if you ever came back here! I swear if you don't get out now I wont hesitate to tell Sally all about your _bit on the side _in fourth year-"

On entering the circle Sherlock stopped short, noticing that it was not Anderson who had found his hidden paradise, but in fact John.

"Oh. Sorry I - thought you were someone else." Sherlock said awkwardly.

"No - sorry I umm - I was just - I was -"

Sherlock looked John over quickly, taking in the red eyes and the single tear stained cheek which had also gone quite a violent shade of purple, just before he turned around hastily and wiped his eyes.

"Yes." Sherlock said, showing john he didn't need an answer.

John turned around again after a few moments and attempted a small, shy smile.

Sherlock couldn't help smiling back at him. They sustained eye contact for a few seconds before John looked away, slightly embarrassed.

"Sorry I should probably go. It's er, quite a nice little place this isn't it, feels sort of - I dunno - _safe."_

He made to leave but Sherlock stopped him before he could properly think it over.

"No, you should stay - I mean, school doesn't start for about another fifteen minutes - and out there's just filled with all these half witted, poor excuses for human beings, trust me, you're far better off here."

John just stared at him, eyes slightly wide. Sherlock held his breath, afraid he's gone too far and said something _not good _again.

But then John just started laughing. It was a high boyish giggle, that made him feel a lot younger and lighter with each breath that escaped his lips.

Sherlock stood there watching, quite shocked, then joined in with his rich baritone laugh.

When John finished he said: "Well you're nothing if not honest."

Sherlock smiled and gestured to the old bench; "Want to sit?"

"Sure."

They sat side by side on the small bench; John swinging his legs and studying the ground, seemingly deep in thought, Sherlock watching him intently.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I don't know really, everything and nothing I suppose."

He let out a small laugh and turned to Sherlock; " I suppose you must think I am - well..."

"I think you're great." He spoke confidently and slowly, and surprisingly he meant every word.

John stared at him in shock. Then he smiled and looked down again saying; "You don't even know me. If you did I doubt you'd stick around to say that."

"You'd be surprised." Sherlock mused, more to himself. People had this assumption that if they did not voice their secrets and thoughts then they remained hidden. But they were wrong. People wore their thoughts like canvases, painted intricately for Sherlock to read.

"Why?" John asked, intrigued but also looking slightly worried.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John intently. He was unsure of what Johns reaction would be if he did tell him all he knew. He would usually just go ahead with his deductions, never held back by something so fickle as peoples feelings. But there was something different about John, he didn't _want_ to hurt John. And so he simply brushed it off, battling his urges to show John all he could really see when he looks at a person, and said "Nothing."

John shifted on the bench angling himself towards Sherlock, on doing so their thighs brushed slightly and Sherlock felt something lurch in the pit of his stomach, something foreign and frightening to him.

He looked at there knees which were now pressed together, then back up to John's eyes, which were looking into Sherlock's, eager.

"No, go on, tell me. I can see you want to say something."

Sherlock was looking at John slightly wide eyed like a deer at the headlights, still momentarily overcome by the strange new feeling John had awoken in him.

John was looking at him, not accusingly, but intrigued.

Sherlock hesitated for a second longer and then blurted out; "I know your name is John Watson, that you have a a deceased mother and an abusive father who blames you for her death. I know you blame yourself too, despite the front you put up, it is slowly killing you inside day by day. I know that although you despise your father, if the day ever came where he welcomed you with open arms you would willingly accept it instantly, after waiting your whole life for the love you truly deserve but were never given. I know that your sister is completely oblivious to your fathers bad habits of drinking and late night beatings but only because you make it so. Your father would never hurt her, possibly because she reminds him of your mother, possibly because he has his own moral guide lines which like many fools includes never hitting a girl, but everyone else is okay.

I know that you would never tell her either because you feel that in doing so, you would be endangering her. And as much as it angers you to see her treating him with such admiration, you would never put your own happiness or safety, for that matter, before another's. Its this martyr quality you have."

Sherlock paused to take a breath, but seeing Johns face; eyes averted, expression contorted in pain, he immediately stopped and looked at the ground, ashamed.

He waited for John to begin with the endless streams of abuse which usually followed his deductions. But he did not. He stayed silent. Looking up at a point in the trees.

Sherlock wasn't sure if this was better or worse. It didn't look like John was going to say something anytime soon, so Sherlock turned to him and said;

"Look, i'm sorry John, I shouldn't have said that. I just - do things sometimes without meaning to - I"

"You're right."

Sherlock faltered slightly as John looked back into his eyes and said again; "You're right. Right about my mum and dad and my sister and...me. I don't know how, but you're right and that was quite incredible."

He finished and smiled sadly at Sherlock, who just sat there staring at John, disbelieving.

No one had ever said that about one of his deductions before. _Never_. No one had ever called him _incredible._

For some reason John felt no need to question Sherlock on how he knew all the things he did. He just saw his brilliance and accepted it.

It felt nice to be accepted by someone. Sitting here with John, on the old oak bench, among the cover of the tall trees, Sherlock understood Johns first comment about the place; it really did feel _safe. _

He had never thought this before on entering his little hiding place, nor had he ever thought he would crave this feeling of safety so much, until now, as he sat there with John by his side, and felt it.

And Sherlock, feeling the warmth of Johns thigh pressed against his as they sat in contented silence and listening to the gentle breeze as it whistled through the trees, realised that this truly was their own little paradise. Perfection wrapped up in a moment, and he never wanted it to end. But as the shrill ring of the bell sounded, Sherlock was reminded that nothing good ever lasts.

John stood and held out a hand for Sherlock, who took it and held it happily; standing. But when he was stood John slowly pulled his hand away, his ears going a slight shade of pink.

Sherlock felt slightly rejected at first, but quickly submerged it to a deep recess of his mind to contemplate over later.

They walked out of the hidden circle one by one as the entrance was quite small, then walked towards the school gates blending in with the sea of students flooding towards the entrance.

"So you are in Fifth year then?" Sherlock asked as they walked.

"Yes."

"Your first year here though I take it. I would have recognised you otherwise."

"I'm not very memorable."

Sherlock stopped and looked at him; "On the contrary, I think that you are very memorable."

John blushed slightly and smiled up at him.

"Well I'm glad one person thinks so." He said quietly, nudging Sherlock's arm with his own in a way of thanks.

The brush of john's arm against his sent a shiver through him and a rush of fire to his skin in tandem.

"Well anyone who doesn't think so is an idiot."

John laughed, "That must be it, yeah."

They began walking again, making their way to the reception to sign in and get there room numbers.

Sherlock, watching John walking happily beside him with their fingers brushing slightly every so often, had a feeling that this year was going to be a good one.


	3. Fight or Flight

Chapter 3

**Fight or Flight**

**A/N: Just a few warnings to begin with, this chapter is quite angsty and includes mentions of child abuse and sexual abuse, so if this will badly affect you in any way then I suggest skipping this one, this chapter is also mainly about John and his past again, but we delve in a bit deeper this time. I promise next chapter will be filled with more Johnlock cuteness that we all know and love ;) okay I'll let you read the story now hehe... :D**

"So do you know your dorm yet?" Sherlock asked as they walked into the reception building.

"No, I was a last-minute transfer. I didn't apply until a day before yesterday. So it's all a bit unorganised."

"Why the sudden change?"

John shifted slightly under Sherlock's intense gaze, averting his eyes to the ground.

He simply shrugged and walked up towards the desk, stating his name. Sherlock stood still for a moment, processing John's strange behaviour just then, filing it away for later examination and then joined him at the desk.

The woman at the desk handed John his key saying; "Ah , it appears you have a new room-mate, John Watson. As you appear to be the only student with a room to yourself. Have you two met?" She spoke softly and with a kind smile.

"Yes," Said John.

"Right well I suppose can show you the ropes as they say, you are in room 221 in dorm B. He'll show you the way won't you dear."

"Of course." Sherlock replied, eyes never leaving John.

She handed Sherlock his key as well and they headed up the stairs together to dorm B.

They walked in silence. John was looking straight ahead, brow slightly furrowed. Sherlock's words still swimming around his thoughts.

_Why the sudden change?_

He wasn't sure whether it was okay to unload all his home problems on Sherlock, their friendship had been so sudden and yet _binding_. And it wasn't like Sherlock didn't already know about it. About John and his guilt or his father and his _bad habits._

But there was so much to it that Sherlock did not know. So much that John could never speak of, to _anyone. _Things that if found out, would change people's perception of him for good...

John had loved his old school, it was an average public school with pretty poor facilities, but it was his home away from home. The first place he'd ever felt truly safe. The first place he wasn't immediately treated like dirt.

It was a place where he was John Watson; captain of the football team with a dream of becoming a doctor. And not _Johnny_; the cause of his mother's death, eternally guilt ridden, despised.

It was the one place he could let go of his past, shrug it off his shoulders for a few hours, numb everything.

But a few months ago, one Sunday night, Johns father had come home particularly drunk and angry.

John had felt it in the air, something was different, darker. His father was a bad man at the best of times, but he could control it, cover it. But alcohol seemed to reveal him, remove the mask, bearing the true monster that lay beneath. It was a sight that would make even the strongest of men tremble.

And that night he was particularly reeled up and angry.

He opened the door with a vicious intent, slamming it loudly. Then he stumbled up the stairs making his way along the corridor towards John's room at the end.

John, listening to the heavy footsteps approaching, turned his face into the pillow; closing his eyes tight and attempting to control his breathing, trying to retreat to that place inside his mind that he always did in the darkest times.

He heard his door open softly and then the low whisper of his father as he leaned over Johns bed intoxicating the air with the pungent smell of alcohol.

"Do you know how much I loved your mother?" He uttered.

"She was so beautiful. She had long blonde hair, like Harry's and soft, hazel eyes. I can picture her as clearly as if she were stood here now."

John had shifted his head out of the pillow to turn his face slightly towards his father, he had expected to be beaten already, his father never spoke about John's mother, no matter how much he begged to hear about her. He would usually come in and throw some abuse at him drunkenly and then possibly swing a fist at him - always below the shoulders; somewhere that would cause pain but wouldn't be visible.

He was now leaning so close into John that he could feel the man's breath on his ear.

John lay quite stiffly, still tense with fear. His father was a very unpredictable man, especially when drunk. John tried to remind himself that the man could strike at any moment but a part of him so badly wanted to think that maybe things had changed. Maybe his father was finally opening up to him, maybe this was his way of reaching out to him. Just maybe he had _forgiven_ him.

John smiled sadly and a single tear ran down his cheek, he was filled with such a painful sort of happiness that it felt like daggers to his heart.

"But you know Johnny, that picture, as clear as I can see it now, will someday fade. And I'll be left with just a watercolour of the way she was, and then she'll be gone and I'll have nothing left."

He lifted a hand up and John flinched slightly, but instead of bringing it down quickly to strike him, he lowered it gently to John's face and graced the curve of his lips as he whispered.

"You know, you have her smile." As he said these words his lips gently pressed to John's earlobe.

John suddenly jolted with horror. He rolled off his bed in panic and backed away into the corner of his room, shaking violently.

His father didn't even flinch from John's sudden movements, only made his way towards John. The lack of light causing him to look like a large figure made up of only darkness.

John shivered and shouted; "Dad! What are you doing! Stop it! Stay away from me!"

But his words were cut off and lost into the night as his father said slowly; " Shut up or you'll wake Harry. And you don't want to get her involved in this do you?"

John instantly stilled. Breathing heavily but making no other sound.

"That's a good boy." James Watson whispered. "Now get onto the bed."

Hot tears stinging his eyes, he took one last look out of the open door towards Harry's room and made his way over to the bed, as his father closed the door. Stomach churning, he lay face down and put his head back into the pillow, closing his eyes tight and trying once more to retreat to that place in his head where he was someone else, somewhere else. Maybe in the middle of a meadow with tall trees and flowers and the rich rays of the sun on his back, the smell of fresh grass filling his lungs.

But as he felt the weight of something heavy on his back it got harder and harder to stay in the meadow. The sky darkened, the grass was dying, the flowers wilted and the trees shrivelled around him. His meadow died that night along with a part of John himself. His innocence perhaps, the part of him that could love and trust.

The following morning John awoke to the sound of his door opening slowly.

He was quite disoriented for a few seconds. And then he remembered.

His body went rigid and he sat up quickly, instantly regretting it as a jolt of pain struck through his body. His ribs were bruised and he had finger shaped bruises running along his arms from when he had struggled.

He felt his face which was painful and puffy from where it had been struck twice. There were also two tracks of dried, silent tears that felt like they had been flowing all night.

But when he saw that the person at the door was in fact Harry he slowly relaxed into his bed, exhaling heavily.

"Daddy says you're not going to school today because you're ill. But were leaving now so I just thought I'd say bye before I left for uni," She smiled at him and began approaching him with the obvious intention of hugging him. But John, realising his beaten state which would be fairly obvious on close examination, decided it was best to cut his ties now, for the sake of Harry. Otherwise last night would have been for nothing. He had to get her away from him.

"Go away Harry." He said in a low but powerful voice.

She stopped shocked. "I'm just hugging you good-bye, I wont see you till Christmas."

"The longer you stay away the better. Now get out." Each word was like a new wound to his heart. But he had to make her hate him. If she didn't she would be concerned, asking him where he got his bruises from, and he would want to tell her desperately, but his father had made it quite clear what would happen if he did. Things would be easier if she hated him.

Harry's face fell, and she began approaching him again. "Johnny what's wrong, what have I done?"

John decided it was either fight or flight from here as he swung his last blow which he _knew _would be enough to knock her down; " I saw you with that girl, Clara, the other week. It's disgusting. You're disgusting. Just do me a favour and don't bother coming back."

Harry's whole body turned slack, a single tear escaped her eye as she turned for the door and walked out, pausing in the door way only to say; "Goodbye, John."

And with that she left. As soon as he heard the door shut behind him he curled up within himself and cried.

He cried for the loss of innocence.

He cried for the loss of his sister.

He cried for the loss of a father.

And he cried for the loss of his mother.

The loss that had caused all other losses. Like a twisted domino effect, he watched as they fell from his grasp; one after the other after the other.

Until he was left alone encompassed by the scattered chaos around him.

The reason he had left his old school and been sent to Mythwater Boarding school, as far away from home as possible without leaving the country, was because although John had not gone into school on the Monday, he had on Tuesday. And unlike the other times, this time his father had left his marks loud and clear upon John's broken body. Like open scars.

And this time, people had asked questions.

**So guys that's chapter 4 done! Sorry about all the angst and the lack of Johnlock in this chapter, but all this will become very important in the storyline later on! **

**Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed favourited or followed this story so far! Any type of response makes my heart happy :D **


	4. Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

Chapter 4

**Curiosity didn't kill the cat**

**A/N So! Bit of a long one this time! And a bit of a difficult one to write! I'd just like to say thanks again to anyone who has read, reviewed, favourited or followed this story! I really appreciate the support, you guys are great! :D Anyway let's crack on, enjoy!**

As they turned the corner to dorm B, a boy bumped into Sherlock.

He was quite small and skinny with soft brown eyes that were wide and bright.

"Oh sorry, I didn't see you there." He spoke in a high, hurried voice.

"It's fine." Sherlock looked him over once, uninterested, then reverted his gaze to John and made to walk on.

But the boy didn't move, instead his eyes slid over Sherlock slowly, taking him in before she said; "You're Sherlock Holmes aren't you?"

This stopped Sherlock. "Yes. And you are?..."

But the boy ignored his question and continued; "People have been saying a lot about you. I'm new here you see. They've been telling me that you're _quite _the detective. Whenever things go wrong, or something goes missing - or something's not _quite right, _Sherlock Holmes is on the case - and he never misses a thing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly and looked Jim over again, only to find that this time he was seeing something completely different.

The clumsy high voiced boy from before was gone, his posture was straighter, his shy smile had faded and his eyes were hard and dark, looking almost black under the dim lighting.

Something was off about this boy. His whole demeanour had mutated into a completely new one right before his eyes.

The boy watched as Sherlock frowned in confusion, smiling back and raising an eye brow.

Sherlock felt like this boy was trying to show him something. As stupid a thought as it was, he felt like the boy was trying to show Sherlock that he was _unreadable_, that he could make him see what ever he wanted him to...but that couldn't be? He was just a random stranger? What would be the point? The _reason? _A threat maybe?

All Sherlock knew was that he definitely didn't trust him and thought that it was probably best if he didn't feed this strange boy's fascination with him any longer.

"Yes, well. People do like to exaggerate don't they. I wouldn't listen too closely to what people say around here. Come on John."

He made to leave placing a hand on John's arm but Jim; eyes following the movement, stopped him again saying; "No, don't undersell yourself! That doesn't sound like the Sherlock Holmes I've been told about. He's a right show off. Always the cleverest in the room and ensures that everybody knows it."

The boy smiled widely, flashing a full set of small white teeth, but it didn't reach his eyes.

Sherlock smiled tightly; "And who exactly has been telling you all this information about me?"

The boy smiled. "Well, I guess I'd better be off, I'll see you around, Sherlock." His eyes met Sherlock's in an intense gaze and then they fleeted to John's as he asked; "Oh and I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch your name?"

But Sherlock knew he did.

"Oh er, John. John Watson."

"Yes, interesting." He paused setting his eyes on Sherlock's again and grinning. "Well, bye boys."

And with that he walked away, down the corridor.

John stared after him but Sherlock kept his eyes set forward, refusing to appear as if his attention had been won by this strange boy.

"Well." John looked back at Sherlock; furrowing his brow, "That was...odd."

"Let's get to the room. The 'Welcome back' assembly will start soon and I'd like to at least put a door between myself and these feeble minded people for a few moments before it begins."

Sherlock then began walking briskly up the stairs. John wasn't quite sure what had just happened between Sherlock and that peculiar boy, but he could feel that whatever it was, it wasn't good. With one last look down the corridor through which the boy had disappeared, he turned towards the stairs and hurried after Sherlock.

As they reached the door to 221B Sherlock used his key to open it, slotting it through the lock. But as he did he heard something light, but noticeable; hit the floor just behind the door.

He turned to John; "Did you hear that?"

"Yeah."

Their gazes both returned to the door as Sherlock slowly pushed it open.

The door whined in protest with age. As it swung fully open, both their eyes fell upon a tiny scroll lying on the floor. It had a thin red ribbon tied around it in a bow and wasn't much larger than one of Sherlock's cigarettes.

"Slotted it through the key hole, obviously intended to be found by us and only us - the sole owners of the keys to our room."

"Well, it beats the cliché of being slipped under the door."

Sherlock bent down and picked it up, closing the door swiftly behind him. He then walked over to one of the beds and sat on it, beginning to unravel the scroll. John walked over to the bed and sat beside him. Sherlock felt the warmth of his presence and it relaxed him, even though he hadn't been aware that he was tense.

John then leant in slightly as Sherlock held the paper up for them both to read;

_ I'm a busy man Sherlock, lots of things to do. Games to play. And I'm about to invite you to join me in one, but fair warning; I don't play fair and I don't like it when people end my games. So just remember; _

_ Curiosity didn't kill the cat Sherlock, because I got there first._

_You're move._

_-M x_

"What the hell is that all about?" asked John, incredulous.

"I don't know, but I have a feeling we're about to find out."

"What do you mean?"

"_Your move. _That suggests he's made his. Come on, let's go."

They were making their way down the stairs as John asked;

"M, do you think that's the boy from before?"

"Can't be sure but something tells me that's a very good guess."

They walked into the assembly hall and sat in one of the back rows of the chairs lined up across the room. At the front was a large stage on which the head master was stood. As the last few piled in he began speaking in a pompous voice.

"So welcome back to another year at Mythwater, I trust that you will make the most of it, work hard and enjoy it all the same, now -"

But he was suddenly cut off by a sound coming from behind the curtains of the stage. It sounded like a muffled scream.

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance as the entire room fell silent.

The head threw an accusing glance around at the students but seeing the look of confusion and hints of fear on their faces he turned towards the curtains instead.

He walked toward them grabbing the rope that controlled them at the side and pulled it, opening them.

As the curtains parted a sickening scene met their eyes.

A small boy from first year was hanging by his wrists from the fly system on the ceiling. He was blind folded, gagged and writhing in terror.

The head teacher stared in horror and then he, along with the other teachers went around the back to fiddle with the wheel to lower the flies.

John jolted in his seat; "Oh _Jesus_." Sherlock sat rigid, eyes searching the crowd for that pale face with dark eyes. Within seconds he found him, eyes directly on Sherlock, face neutral but eyes smirking, _gloating._ He then turned back around in his seat and watched the chaos dance around him like wild fire.

The teachers got the boy down and untied him. One teacher turned to the crowd of students and shouted over the uproar of hostility; "Right! Get to your rooms now, all lessons today are cancelled. You don't leave your rooms apart from for dinner at five!"

The students all filed out swiftly through the main entrance.

When Sherlock and John got to their room, Sherlock walked briskly over to his bedside table where the scroll had been stored. But as he was about to retrieve it, he saw an envelope lying on the table. John joined him and sat on the bed, Sherlock too then sat and held up the envelope, opening it for them both to read;

_Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. _

_He never was one to appreciate the art of the stage._

_So I showed him a different angle. _

Sherlock finished reading and then looked up at John, who was sat a lot closer than Sherlock had realised and as he turned around their noses brushed gently. Something in the pit of his stomach felt like it had been lit on fire and he felt his cheeks flush pink as his eyes bore into John's heatedly. But the moment only lasted a second as John immediately flinched and backed away to the edge of the bed against the wall.

Sherlock watched on in horror as Johns breathing escalated and he moved off Sherlock's bed and towards his own refusing to look at him.

He started fiddling with a bag with shaking hands.

"They er - must have brought our bags up for us I guess."

Sherlock only stared at him, transfixed. Was it really that disturbing for John to touch him? Did John find it disgusting? He had been fine outside on the bench when Sherlock had held his hand...he had been shy, maybe even embarrassed but not _revolted_. Sherlock didn't understand? John's reaction made no sense? He needed more data.

Making his way over to John he stopped just behind him, definitely interrupting his personal space and said softly over his shoulder; "Yes. Need any help unpacking?"

John didn't seem to have heard Sherlock approaching in his panicked state, and so when he felt Sherlock's breath against the back of his neck he immediately stiffened. His hands shaking by his side, he tried with all his might to calm himself. But as he did so he felt a hand gently grace his arm. "You could just leave it. You don't need to worry about that now."

Beneath Sherlock's fingers he felt the echo of those fading fingertip bruises throbbing beneath his skin.

His breath quickened. It was all too much. There wasn't enough air in the room and the walls felt too close, the ceiling too low. Before he could stop it his mind began to wonder back to that night, providing him with flashes of his father's face grinning down at him, of the pain, the fear, the _disgust._

He let out a small whimper and fell to the ground, tucking his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

His father was right. As much as he tried to move on from it, his past was a part of him. And it would never leave him alone. Ever.

He saw something in front of him move through his now blurred vision. Sherlock was kneeling opposite him, staring at him intensely, eyes wide in shock.

He didn't touch John; knowing better, but he spoke in a quiet voice; "John. I'm sorry. I - I don't understand - what did I - what's _wrong_?"

Sherlock was panicking now. He had no idea what had just happened. Hurting John had never been his intention. But John sat there trembling looking like Sherlock had _hit_ him.

As Sherlock considered this his eyes passed over the cut on John's cheek and he had a thought; "Is this something to do with your father?" he asked, hesitantly. Sherlock didn't really see how, but he supposed it was a possibility.

John physically flinched, almost shouting; "No! Of course not! Why would you ask that?!"

John looked angry now and he could see that bringing up Johns father hadn't been his best move.

"I'm going for a walk."

"But John, we can't leave the room. Where are you going?"

"No where. Just leave me alone."

And with that he crossed the room and slammed the door. Sherlock stayed sat on the floor for quite a while. Going over what had just happened.

_John is okay with physical contact, being in close proximity, but if it turns to something akin to intimate or amorous he panics. But he was fine when we were on the bench outside. Possibly because it was closed off? No surely the room is more secure; so it's not fear of being seen. He seemed to like it when I held his hand so he likes the feel of intimacy - but given a few seconds to realise what he is doing, he pulls away seemingly disturbed? A haunting memory perhaps? Of a past relationship that didn't go well? Maybe he believes himself to be adamantly straight? Perhaps he did have a relationship with another boy, but his father found out and reacted badly. That would make sense, that would explain the flinching and the bad memory…and possibly the disgust._

Sherlock decided that the only way to solve this would be to go and find John, try to convince him that his dad couldn't hurt him anymore. That Sherlock wouldn't let him. But where could he be? Sherlock thought back over John's reactions to different parts of the school, places he liked, good places for remaining unseen. Somewhere John might go if he were feeling particularly upset or vulnerable. And then he remembered;

_"It's er, quite a nice little place this isn't it, feels sort of - I dunno - safe."_

The _circle_. _Of course_. Without another thought, Sherlock ran out of the room and down the halls. All the teachers were still too busy with the traumatised boy who had been left hanging on the stage to patrol the halls so he got out quite easily.

As he approached the group of trees beside the school gates, about to push back the cluster of branches and leaves hiding the circle, Sherlock heard voices. One was soft and playful, and all too familiar. The other sounded strangled and pained. _John_.

Sherlock felt his heart throb painfully and his pulse quicken as he stood listening to what appeared to be John being tortured by the foul boy who referred to himself as M. He clenched his fists tightly as he heard John shout out; "Stop it! Shut up! _Please! _I can't. I _can't_. Just _please."_

The last word came out in a broken whisper, only to be followed by a high, humourless laugh.

"Oh, Johnny boy, I'm only just getting started, this is _way_ too much fun."

Sherlock decided he'd had enough. Grinding his teeth, he ripped through the branches and hurried through to the circle...

**That's it for chapter 4 guys! Please review and tell me what you think, you know I love them! ;) **

**(There is even a celebratory mini dance now for every review I get, that I shamelessly do on my own.)**


	5. Take My Hand

Chapter six

**Take my hand**

**So guys, sorry about the delay! College started on Friday so I've been a bit busy! But that isn't the only reason, this chapter includes Moriarty as you will have guessed from the ending of the previous one! And let me tell you, he is not the easiest character to write for! :p I gave it my best shot anyway but tell me what you think and if you have any thoughts on how it could be improved or anything, they're welcome! So anyway on with the story... **

The first thing Sherlock saw was a lean figure looming over something small beside the bench. One hand clutching the seat, nails digging into the wood with the burning pleasures of torture and the power it gave him.

The second thing Sherlock noticed was that the small thing beneath the figure was John.

He was crouching on the ground arms wrapped tight around his knees protectively, glaring up at the boy with a searing gaze that held both utter loathing and severe pain.

But as he saw a tall boy with ragged dark curls and bright, unmistakable eyes, he stood quickly and shoved the ominous boy stood over him, away with a sudden new found strength.

The boy stumbled slightly but immediately caught his balance and corrected himself smoothly, wearing that same cold, broad smile.

"Ooh, it's a feisty pet you've got there Sherlock, think this one needs a leash." His eyes flashed dangerously.

"Shut up." John said, seething.

But the boy's attention was now diverted solely to Sherlock and he did not reply to John, nor appear as if he had even heard him.

Sherlock watched as the boy began pacing around the little circle, taking in the auburn leaves scattered across the ground, the tall trees climbing high into the air allowing only a tiny hole at the top open to the sky where a shaft of light bathed the circle in a golden glow. And the old oak bench in the centre. Consumed by time and weather, but still holding a sort of unadorned beauty to it.

It sickened Sherlock that this boy was able to see such beauty that was their little paradise. He did not deserve it nor understand it. He just wanted to own it. He knew that this place was treasured by them and he was positively gleeful about the fact that he could so easily destroy it.

"Unlike you I do not require pets because I am incapable of having friends."

"Well I suggest you invest in some. They're a whole lot more worthwhile than people."

He carried on pacing around the circle slowly and then stopped to glance up at the gap in the trees above saying softly;

"You and I could be friends Sherlock. Think of how great it would be. I _know_ you've thought about it. You've never really met anyone quite like me before have you?" He winked at him and then returned his gaze to the sky.

"...it excites you."

"It would be a destructive bond. It would end with only one of us." Sherlock spoke sharply.

"Hmm yes, but it would be an _incredible_ ending don't you think? An ending worthy of two brilliant minds clashing, like a volcano with a tornado, creating mass destruction all around." He seemed to be deep in thought, and then he parted his gaze with the sky and finished his musing, looking at Sherlock and saying;

"Did you like my little show Sherlock?" He moved forward slightly and whispered; "Did you get the message?"

He cocked his head to the side in an almost lizard like fashion, looking up at Sherlock from under his lashes playfully.

Sherlock looked back into his mind at the scene before him this morning. The boy hanging by his hands...blindfolded...gagged...hanging from...the _flies_ on the _stage_. Of _course_.

"Yes, quite artistic. You were using the boy as a metaphor for yourself. You hung him on the stage, which was my first clue towards the literary arts, more accurately you hung him from the flies. You had control of him from there at the top. You could say you considered yourself '_The Lord of the Flies.' _

This, as in the novel, is a reference to Beelzebub; another name for the devil. You were presenting yourself as more evil and powerful than anything or anyone. You were _gloating_."

The boy grinned, "Ahh," he sighed contentedly, "Perfect. You see Sherlock, isn't it great to have someone who is finally able to meet you at your level? A worthy Competitor? A _threat_."

His eyes darkened as he uttered the last word in a low, dangerous voice.

"I'll leave you to consider my offer, Sherlock."

He walked towards the entrance pushing back the branches, pausing to turn to John who was now leaning on the bench,

"_The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son a thousand times._ And your daddy has been _very _naughty. Be careful Johnny boy." He smirked as John made to lunge at Jim, but Sherlock grabbed him and held him back before he reached him.

"Bye boys." He sang, disappearing into the cluster of trees. And this time Sherlock watched him until he was gone.

A sudden violent squirming broke him from his thoughts.

John was shouting "Let go of me! Get off of me! Don't _touch_ me."

But Sherlock only held on tighter, desperate not to let go of this poor, broken boy in his arms.

"Shh John, listen to me. _Listen. _Nobody can hurt you now, your dad - he won't ever hurt you again. I promise you."

John felt his heart ache with bitter irony, if only Sherlock knew how truly damaged he was. But he couldn't know. Nobody could know.

Jim knew. Jim knew _everything_.

...

_"How...how do you know all this? I never...nobody..."_

_"Did you know that the teachers at your old school began to get suspicious? They were about to make a full blown investigation. Funny how much people will tell you when they believe they're about to die."_

_"Who are you?"_

_"Jim Moriarty. Hi."_

_ ..._

John went slack in Sherlock's hold before adjusting his arms slightly, wrapping Sherlock in a tight, desperate hug.

"Moriarty. That's his name. Jim Moriarty." He choked.

Sherlock just held him tighter, cataloguing the information and storing it away for later use.

John hadn't had physical contact for what felt like a life time. It was an embrace which felt foreign to him.

Being hugged by Sherlock was something otherworldly. It was like being consumed by a flame, there was so much heat, so much feeling and intensity. And yet it was also something so calming, like floating in the sea and allowing the water to hug and hold you. It was grounding.

The moment was almost so intense that he felt like he couldn't take it any longer. But it was also so beautiful that he never wanted it to end.

But then as Sherlock nuzzled his face against John's neck, and he felt a ragged breath ghost his skin, the press of soft lips to his pule point, the memories of that night wound around his mind like a snake, suffocating him.

He pushed Sherlock away muttering; "Sorry, I - I can't." And then he sat on the bench looking at the floor, trying to control his breathing. Furious at himself for the lack of control he had over his own thoughts. His own _mind._

Sherlock stood watching him; confused and slightly hurt. Then he had an idea.

He walked over to the bench and sat beside John, looking at him intently.

"Take my hand."

John looked up at Sherlock; brows furrowed, "What?"

Sherlock lifted his hand up for John to take,

"Take my hand." He repeated, and John did, holding it hesitantly. Sherlock then brought their joined hands down to rest between them.

"This is all I need. You don't have to give me anything. _Do _anything. All I need is _you_. Right here, in this moment, in our very own little paradise. Like the first time we met."

John looked at their entwined fingers and then up into Sherlock's ghostly pale eyes, with awe. And then a smile stretched across his face.

Slowly, he lifted their joined hands and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's skin, whispering; "Thank you."

Sherlock just smiled and squeezed John's hand in response.

They spent the rest of the day sat on that bench, just talking. About what neither could really say. But it meant everything to them all the same.

As they sat there, though neither would admit it, both were wondering the same thing; If that was Moriarty's opening move, what would be his last?...

**Sorry I know it's a short one! :( But I promise to try and squeeze in more time for my writing and hopefully give you a nice long, angsty Johnlock filled chapters! hehe ;) don't forget to review and let me know what you think! Thanks :D **

**Until next time!**


	6. Mirror, Mirror

**Chapter Six**

**Mirror, Mirror**

**A/U: Hello again readers! Just a quick important notice, you will find in this chapter that clearly Mythwater Boarding School for Boys is no longer for boys...but in fact both genders! This little thing has been changed because to make this chapter work I really needed a girl and so I decided it is now a mixed boarding school. This won't have much affect on the overall storyline or damage the Johnlock bits so don't fret! Like I say it's simply for this chapter really. **

**So, that's all I have to say.**

**Enjoy reading...**

After spending most of the day sat on the old bench they made their way back to room 221B. It was late, but as they approached dorm B they saw little Carl Powers, the boy who had been hung from the stage, waiting outside their door. The boy looked like he had climbed through Hell.

Sherlock and John glanced at one another; John bewildered, Sherlock calculating, then back at Carl fidgeting outside their door.

"Carl Powers." Sherlock said knowingly. "I assume you've come to deliver a message."

The boy looked up at Sherlock with a distant fear in his eyes, the kind that never left you, the kind that would leave a scar. The kind that John recognised all too well.

"Yes." He spoke in a strained, quiet voice which was very unlike his usually loud, cocky tone.

He handed Sherlock a yellow paper scroll which was once again tied neatly with a red ribbon. Carl said "He told me to give you this." And then he hurried away down the corridor, a shell of the boy he once was.

Sherlock unravelled the scroll and read it;

_**Here is my next move**_

_**You'll like it I'm sure,**_

_**I've given you the key,**_

_**Now you find the door.**_

Sherlock frowned. "There must be more?"

"What does he mean 'I've given you the key?'" John asked. Sherlock studied the note, reading it over and over before he said; "It's encoded in the words...could be the septem sequence...a code created in the 1800s and used for when you want to reveal numerical data to someone secretly, the answer is hidden in every seventh word. The number of letters in each seventh word represents each number in the sequence. Meaning that the door we need to find is allocated to room 43. That's on the bottom floor in dorm A."

"Amazing." Sherlock looked up at that, taken aback.

"I'm still in awe of how you do that." John was grinning up at him admiringly. Sherlock felt something warm buzz inside him. He smiled shyly then readjusted himself and carried on with only half as much neutrality as before.

"But there must be more? Surely he would tell us something else? Something to intrigue me...cause me to want to go there? He loves to tempt..to lure his enemies into his neatly woven trap - his spider's web made of a thousand intricate strings."

As John opened the door to 221B, he stopped suddenly in the door way, uttering solemnly; "Sherlock."

"Yes, what is it?" Sherlock was still busy staring at the scroll.

"Just, come here. I think you'll want to see this." Sherlock looked up from the note and walked over to the doorway stopping as John did as he saw what was on the wall opposite.

On entering room 221 the first thing one usually saw was the large, slightly stained mirror hanging on the back wall. But this time on entering the wall Sherlock and John were greeted by a message written in dark crimson across the mirror;

**_Hurry now friend,_**

**_For her time is short._**

**_Her life will soon end _**

**_If the venom's not caught._**

At first Sherlock thought that something else had been painted below the riddle but on examining the mirror more closely he realised it was just a reflection of something written on the wall...a number; 43.

"I was correct about room 43 John. _Brilliant_."

Also attached to the mirror were dozens of snap shots of a young girl who John recognised as Mary Morstan; a kind, pretty girl from their year. There were pictures of her taken from all over campus, pictures of her with her friends laughing, some of her alone. Some had been taken far away, others quite close, so close in fact that you would think that the person had been stood right next to her, as if they had been taken by a _friend_.

John's blood ran cold. This was more than just little power play or prank. This was a soon to be murder.

Sherlock however, did not seem too distressed by the image before him. "Ooh that _is_ good. He really is stepping up the game a little. I wonder why he wrote it on the mirror...there's got to be some reason, he does seem like the type of person who does nothing without a reason.." Sherlock lost himself in his own thought for a moment, contemplating.

John stared at Sherlock. "You _do_ realise that a human life is at stake here? That it is actually worth something. See that girl in the picture? That's Mary, she has a name. She has friends and a family. People who love her and most importantly she has a life - something which she has a right to live, something that no one else has the right to steal. Not even Jim Moriarty. You're acting like this is all some _game_!"

"Ah John this hero quality inside of you really is a suicide mission. You do know that? You can't protect everyone. And caring about them won't save them."

John just stared at him, incredulous.

"Right so according to the code and as confirmed in the mirror her room is number 43, let's go. You want to be a doctor right? Well here's your first work experience. Come on John the game is afoot!"

Sherlock hurried out, pausing in the doorway to look back at John through the mirror. "Come _on_, John."

But John didn't move and he didn't look back at Sherlock through the mirror. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, calculating.

"I've disappointed you so you won't help. Not much help this _caring_." He caught John's eyes once and then stalked away down the corridor. John watched him go then reverted his eyes back to his own reflection. He let out a long suffering sigh and then followed after Sherlock hurriedly, closing the door to 221B behind him.

He caught up with Sherlock quickly who looked down at him and smiled inwardly with relief. Just for a second he thought that he might have gone too far, crossed the line and scared him off, just like everyone else. But john wasn't like everybody else. He was brave and loyal.

And he would never run away.

They ran towards room 43A with a rush of adrenaline. When they got to the door they were greeted by a girl with long blonde hair and a sour look etched across her face.

"You do realise what time it is?" She said venomously. "You aren't allowed in the girl's dormitories after 11pm."

"Yes but we have reason to believe that your room mate is in danger." John countered quickly. But something felt off to Sherlock.

"_What? _Are you on something?"

"No! Listen, just we need to see Mary. It's _urgent_." John was trying to see into the rest of the room over her shoulder as he called "Mary! Are you there? Mary we need to talk to you! We think you're in danger!"

"Will you shut up! You're going to get us all in trouble!" The girl was angering now, and still Sherlock felt like something was just _not quite right_.

"John." He started but John had already pushed past the angry faced girl in the doorway.

Sherlock followed doubtfully. As they approached Mary's bed however it was empty.

John swiveled round to the girl who had now followed them into the room now.

"Where is she?"

"I..I don't know! I just assumed she'd gone out to meet someone! You don't...you weren't really serious about her being in danger...were you?"

"Why would you possibly assume that she was going to meet with someone at 12 o'clock at night?!"

"Because she was having a secret relationship with one of the members of staff." Sherlock said confidently.

"Who told you that?!" The sour faced girl shouted.

"Nobody told me. I just know."

"That's not t-"

"There are a number of things about this room which would suggest this. One of which being the man's watch by her bed, the make and wrist size clearly not that of a child's. And then there's the coffee mug on the side."

"The _coffee_ mug?!"

"Yes. the coffee mug. It's a distinct shade of burgundy. The exact colour of all the mugs from the staff room, made to match the school colours - also to prevent students from claiming them as their own, they even have a print of the school's logo on the bottom."

He picked up the cup and displayed the bottom of the cup to John and the girl. "So either you have quite the thief for a room mate or she's been having quite a few late night sleepovers with a teacher, and I would personally incline towards the latter."

The girl looked furious and then her face fell and she walked over to the bed collapsing onto it and putting her face in her hands. "This bed is _mine. I_ was the one sleeping with the teacher. But I found out he has a wife. So I tried to break it off with him and he got angry, I was scared so I stayed with him. When Mary found out she was horrified. She told me she would confront him, she was going tonight to tell him that if he didn't leave me alone, she would tell everyone about the affair, and she would tell his wife first."

Sherlock and John both stared at her stunned into silence until Sherlock muttered under his breath; "Always _something_."

"So who is this teacher then?" John asked. The girl hesitated and Sherlock added, "This will work better if you just _assume_ that you are telling someone who can always tell when you are lying."

"Mr Parker."

Something hit Sherlock. Something in the back of his mind, trying to claw it's way into his conscious thought.

_Mr Parker. That means something. It has to. Parker. Edward Parker. Mr E Parker...E P. But what does that have to do with anything..._

But a sudden blood curdling scream broke Sherlock from his reverie. It was coming from the other end of the Hall. John shared a panicked look with Sherlock before the three of them ran out of the room, frantically following the screams tearing through the silence of the night.

They ran into the room which the screams were echoing from. The door was already open and inside a teacher was hovering over a screaming girl who was writhing on the floor in agony. He looked at them terrified.

"Get away from her." John barked, leaning down next to her and cradling her face in his hands. Then looking up at Sherlock sombrely.

The sour faced girl screamed and ran towards her falling to her knees beside her. "Mary!"

"I didn't touch her I _swear_!" Mr Parker cried desperately. "One minute she was fine and the next...what's _wrong_ with her?!"

"She's been poisoned." John said. "And it's a powerful one."

"_Poisoned_?"

"Go and get help. _Now_." Sherlock spoke quickly but calmly. Mr Parker backed out of the door, eyes wide and still fixed on the girl writhing on the floor. But before he left Sherlock added; "And I think you'll find that we were never here, nor were you ever in room 43." Shooting him a meaningful look, the teacher's eyes widened further as he nodded and then fled." Sherlock then turned to the girl leaning beside Mary. "You too." He said to the girl.

"I'm not leaving her." She spoke in a shaky voice that didn't fool Sherlock.

"I know you don't want to see this. Besides there's nothing you can do for her here, the best thing you can do is get help as quickly as possible."

The girl nodded and mouthed _thank you _before quickly exiting the room.

As Sherlock kneeled beside Mary he saw something in her hand and took it. It was a small pocket mirror. He opened it. There were words scribbled across it in red.

**_Mirror deceive me,_**

**_Mirror delude me,_**

**_Lie to me today,_**

**_Tell me I am the fairest,_**

**_In every single way._**

Sherlock dropped the mirror.

"Mary, it's okay. It's all going to be okay. Don't worry. I _won't_ let you die. _Sherlock_. What do we _do?_" The screaming suddenly ceased and the girl stilled, moving only her eyes to look directly into John's. Her lips quivered and she swallowed, blinking furiously. She looked like she was trying to say something. But Sherlock, knowing that time was short, moved in front of John and looked at her directly, he knew Moriarty was behind this but he doubted that he would do any of his own dirty work and now was probably the only chance he'd get to find out if he had accomplices, the _phone photographer_ perhaps...

"Mary. Listen to me, I need you to tell me who did this to you? Describe him to me."

"Sherlock! There'll be time for that later! Let's try saving her first!" John shouted pushing Sherlock back and checking Mary's pulse, but as he saw the look that Sherlock gave him next, his hands fell to his sides.

"No."

"John, we got something wrong, I misjudged something - there's _always_ something...the number on the mirror...it was another game...I should have spotted it immediately it's such a Moriarty move."

"No. Sherlock."

"It was written on the mirror for a reason. There's always a reason. The number Moriarty wrote wasn't 43, it was a reflection...the actual number was 34 - this room. Or if you were to look at the actual shape, it reads E P, because of the way he write his fours, E P as in Edward Parker. We are too late. We fell for the trick and missed the clue." He showed John the mirror. "He made me see what I wanted to see. He knew I would...would assume I was right. While we were busy inspecting room 43, Moriarty was...well..." He gestured towards Mary's now rigid body on the floor.

John's face fell and his head dropped. He ran his fingers through his hair roughly. Sherlock turned back to Mary, whose eyes were now fluttering.

"Mary I need you to tell me who did this to you." Sherlock repeated.

Mary swallowed again and slowly moved her eyes towards John parting her lips to utter only two words; "The devil." Her eyes rolled back into her head and her face fell slack along with the rest of her limbs, including her fingers which john had wrapped around his.

"Oh _Jesus_. Sherlock. She's dead. He _killed_ her, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply stared at the mirror in his hands. This was his fault. His own stupid fault. He had been cocky and foolish. Moriarty knew exactly where his weaknesses were, where to plunge the dagger.

He caught his own eye in the mirror and was repelled by what he saw. God, what must John think of him? He was probably disgusted too, he would probably never forgive him for this.

But as he thought about how he was back to being completely and utterly alone once again because of his own faults, John did something.

He rested his head on Sherlock's shoulders and a shaking fist grabbed his jumper as he clung to Sherlock, just holding him there. He then began speaking in-between rapid breaths; "I'm sorry. I couldn't save her. I - I didn't know what to do. This is my fault..." Sherlock was confounded by John's words. How could he possibly have thought it was his fault? If it was anyone's fault then surely it was Sherlock's. But then John said;"I always seem to be the one doing harm...powerless to stop it...but always the cause. The blood is always on my hands." And Sherlock understood. The scar of his mothers death still ran deep through John's heart.

Sherlock held John tightly. "Listen to me John. This is not your fault. If anyone is to blame, it is me. This skeleton does not belong in your closet."

John shook slightly in his arms. Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead and placed a hand at the nape of John's neck, running his fingers through John's hair softly.

"Come on. The teachers will be back soon and I don't really want to recall the whole of tonight's events to a bunch of idiots, do you?"

"No."

"Let's go," Sherlock led them out of the room and down the corridor quickly, pausing only once to grab John's hand in his, he then carried on, keeping hold of it tightly.

**Phewph! Well, that was quite a plot orientated chapter! A bit depressing too if I'm honest, but you know I just thought, if any of you were having good days I'd just jump in there and rain on your parade. **

**So yeah, the next chapter will hopefully include what Moriarty has to say about all this. I've missed him in this chapter aha, anyone else miss his addictive madness?**

**Speaking of addictive, there will also be some Johnlock moments! Yay! Just to make up for the sheer lack of them in this chapter really.**

**So anyway, thanks for reading and please review and tell me what you think! (there is still a celebratory dance for each review)**

**Until the next time, readers. **


	7. And So The Devil Said Run

** So my readers, we are now on chapter 7! Phewf this took quite a few re-writes and edits, but I got there in the end. Thanks again to anyone reading this story and especially to those who take the time to review! I really do appreciate it. I actually wrote this one in my frees in college, sat in the common room looking for inspiration and hoping no one would be looking over my shoulder to see what on earth I was doing on my phone aha! So yeah, hope you enjoy...I'll leave you to read now... :) **

The day after the murder of Mary Morstan was a particularly strange day. Everyone appeared to be continuously hovering in the paradox of holding on and letting go.

The students said they 'didn't want to talk about it' and yet it was all they really talked about.

The teachers sought to bring normality back to the school after the few days of chaos and tragedy. They made everyone go to lessons as normal. And yet in every lesson there was speech about Mary and her life at the school, the life she never got the chance to really live. They spoke about her like everybody speaks about the dead. Morphing her into the mould of a perfect human being. One that was loved by everyone and never made a single mistake. Never had enemies or sought trouble. The ideal student.

Sherlock wondered if there would be anybody there to defend his life when he died, delivering a false speech about all the perfections he had, but was in fact lacking. He supposed it was a tedious and unimportant affair, and he would be dead so what would it matter...still...

If he had been asked that question a few days ago Sherlock would have answered without a second thought "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." and left it at that. But something had changed now. And that change was simply; John. He had John. Someone who for some reason unknown to Sherlock actually seemed to like him. Someone who hadn't run away. Somebody who _cared_.

With this thought, Sherlock sat down in his seat at the back corner table by the window of the chemistry class with a tiny smile; a pinch of the corner of his mouth - an expression only understood by those who truly knew him.

It was at that moment as he gazed out of the window at the rays of sunshine leaking through the glass that a high, playful voice rang beside him.

"Having a good day are we?"

Sherlock whipped his head around to see Jim Moriarty sitting down smoothly in the seat next to him, sitting a lot closer than was really necessary.

No one else had entered the room yet. The lesson didn't begin for another five minutes. This was usually a small sanctuary where Sherlock could sit in silence for a short while. He liked the chemistry class room, the smell of the chemicals in the cabinets, the way the sun hit the glass at an angle which created dozens of tiny rainbows across the dark, polished wooden desks. It was as if Jim was determined to destroy each sanctuary of Sherlock's one by one until there was nothing left. What would happen then Sherlock couldn't even fathom, and he wasn't sure he wanted to either.

"I wonder what they did with her body..." he spoke in a feigned pensive tone. "Mary that is. It's such a terrible thing that happened to her. Have you heard? Poor girl ate rat poison...I don't know what could possibly have possessed her to do such a thing..." His eyes then darkened as he whispered; "That's the thing about people. They're Just _so_ unpredictable."

Sherlock tightened his fists under the desk. But the thing was, he didn't know if he was disgusted...or _impressed_.

"It's remarkable the amount of trust you have that I won't tell your dirty little secret. I could easily hand you in now, tell them everything." Sherlock replied, maintaining an air of indifference.

"Including how you failed to save her down to your own arrogance and stupidity? No, Sherlock I know you won't tell because that's what a normal person would do and you are far above normal. I might even go as far as to say that you don't bore me."

Before Sherlock could respond the heavy wooden door to the chemistry class swung open and through it flooded a sea of people, noisily making their way to their desks.

As the aged teacher began his usual speech filled with mindless wisdom, and the class sloped into a grouped trance of boredom; fully aware that this speech would not be ending soon, Moriarty shifted in his seat.

He reached into his bag beneath his desk, silently retrieving a black, leather-bound note book.

He opened it and turned to the back page as the front seemed quite preoccupied with copious incomprehensible scrawls in black ink. Sherlock was intrigued by the other pages, but Jim, catching his gaze shook a finger at him, whispering; "Those are secret." He smiled and seized Sherlock's pen from his grasp. Sherlock watched as he began his messy scrawl across the top of the page.

There is a lot to be said about a person from their handwriting. And Jim's was one of a man who thought far too fast and far too intricately for the simple labour of a hand. It was also commonly seen as the handwriting of a genius.

Jim slid the notebook towards Sherlock, rolling the pen after in a structured move.

Sherlock refrained from looking straight away trying to appear disinterested and then his eyes found the page and he read;

_So bored._

Jim was watching him closely as he grabbed the pen slowly and wrote back in a hand very similar to Moriarty's;

_And? _

_Do you ever get bored, Sherlock? _

_Now and then, yes._

_Entertain me._

_How? _

_You're smart. Think of something._

It was as Sherlock paused that Jim chose to edge closer to Sherlock, leaning in towards him and taking the pen off Sherlock carefully, fingers gracing against Sherlock's purposefully.

Sherlock stared at him questioningly, but Jim just continued to slide the notebook from beneath his fingertips gently.

He began drawing something. He then slid the notebook back in front of Sherlock. On it was a circle. But it wasn't just a circle. It was a _perfect_ circle.

"Do you know what they say about someone who can draw a perfect circle?" Jim looked up at Sherlock, eyes wide and curious.

"They are either mad or a genius."

"Which one am I then?"

"What one man perceives as genius another may see as mad, is there really a difference?"

They looked at each other intently with burning focus and then Jim let out a quiet, short laugh.

"Oh I _do_ like you Sherlock."

Sherlock held his gaze, expression remaining neutral.

"Such a shame." Jim sighed.

"What's a shame?"

"That you're John's and not mine. At first I found it quite cute that you had a little pet but now he's rather getting in my way...might have to do something about that..." He mused, tapping the pen on the desk meticulously.

Sherlock froze, as horror began seeping its way through his veins like venom.

In the same second that Jim finished his last word Sherlock knew what he had to do. It was a dangerous game and would probably cost him everything. John would never forgive him if he found out but at least he would be unforgiving and alive.

"John and I are not together."

"Oh whatever you want to call it-"

"John's not gay. And besides he's boring - just a boy...I need more than that."

Sherlock inclined his body slightly towards Jim, looking him up and down slowly, appreciatively - mirroring Jim's exact actions from the moment they first met.

Jim smiled in acknowledgement, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

"Really..." He breathed, looking at Sherlock heatedly, "Well as much as I'd like to take your word for it Sherlock I have seen quite a lot of things which would prove otherwise..."

The shrill ring of the bell sounded, signalling the end of the lesson. The class filed out quickly, eager to escape to the dining hall for dinner. Jim stood, but as he left he ripped out the piece of paper they had been conversing on and left it on the desk, walking away.

Sherlock picked up the paper reading the last words to have been added;

_You want to prove it? _

_Room 401C. _

_Midnight._

_ Xxx_

After his chemistry class, Sherlock decided to skip dinner and instead wandered back to his room. He sat on his bed reading; eager to escape from the realm of reality for a few hours.

When John walked into room 221B after dinner; holding his English lit folder, he saw Sherlock sat on his bed reading.

He didn't look up when John entered so he walked over to Sherlock, joining him on the bed. He sat at the end of it but placed his hand on Sherlock's, entwining their fingers as they often did now when together alone; his thumb gently grazing Sherlock's palm in small circles. Sherlock looked up and smiled, squeezing John's hand in response.

It was a sort of unspoken understanding between them. A way of connecting, a way of saying things which couldn't be said. Which didn't need to be said, so long as they had this. These moments.

John looked up from their interwoven fingers, into Sherlock's eyes. In them he saw a reflection of himself. Something he once believed so broken beyond repair. Damaged. Irreparable.

But now, in the green-blue hue of Sherlock's eyes he saw a boy who was happy, a boy who could trust. Who trusted Sherlock. A boy who could..._love_? John had only ever known unrequited love as a child. The concept of loving someone deeply and having them love you back equally was foreign to him, intangible, unreachable. But now he thought he might just be edging on it.

What he felt for Sherlock was too immense, too powerful to label. Too complex for simple words.

It was a feeling he couldn't quite explain. With Sherlock he felt safe, happy, _excited. _Living a life with Sherlock brought colour back into a previously dark world, it heightened everything. The world opened up to you for the taking. He didn't know if what he felt was love as he had never felt something like this before, but he thought; _it just might be._

Breathing deeply, he tucked his legs up on the bed and leaned in towards Sherlock, pushing him down onto the bed slowly. Sherlock let his arm with the book in go slack; dropping the book to the floor, eyes locked with John's intensely. He then crawled on top of him, resting his chin on Sherlock's chest. His eyes locked with Sherlock's and then they followed the line of his cheek bones and jaw line. Sherlock watched John in fascination, eyes wide. Simply breathing in and out, revelling in the moment, the look in John's eyes, the feeling of John on top of him.

John could appreciate the beauty that was Sherlock Holmes for eternity. The smooth, ivory skin. The sharp definition of his cheekbones. The long line of his neck before it curved into his shoulder. The dark ravenous curls. And then there were his eyes. The depth to them was incredible, with glimmers of blue, green and gold dancing around his pupils like tongues of fire. There were galaxies hidden in those eyes. But also a look of deep rooted wisdom that made him seem so much older than he really was.

He ran a finger along the curve of Sherlock's cheek bone, then followed along the line of his jaw and down to his collar bone, carefully, drawing tiny circles again on his skin lightly.

Sherlock felt his skin buzz; the touch of John's fingertips lit up his skin, feeling almost like he was scoring rings of fire along his collar bone.

Sherlock groaned and grabbed John by the arms; throwing him back onto the bed and climbing on top of him, ducking his head to kiss John's neck.

But as he did this John yelped and threw Sherlock off him, onto the floor in panic. Sherlock felt the waves of heat and passion quickly leave him as he lay on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling resignedly.

Above him he could hear the heavy breaths of John, lying on the bed.

"You have _got_ to stop doing this to me. You are _torturing_ me." He let out a huff of breath as John rolled over on the bed to the edge, looking down at him sheepishly.

"I _know, _I'm sorry_."_

Sherlock looked into John's eyes intently. "Look John. I know you're scared. And I don't know how bad this past relationship of yours must have turned out, or how much it still hurts you to be close to someone again but - "

John immediately sat up, _"Past relationship?" _

Sherlock made to carry on but John cut him off quickly.

"What makes you think I've _ever _had a past relationship?"

"Well that's why you react like I'm trying to attack you!"

John physically flinched at those words.

"Yes like that, see!" Sherlock exclaimed sitting up and pointing at John's features. "Obviously the result of a past relationship that ended badly, probably because of your father's doing. He disapproved of you being gay and tried to _knock it out of you._ He obviously has some influence over your relationships with boys."

When Sherlock looked back up at John he had a distant look in his eyes, as if he were somewhere else, somewhere far away.

"Obviously." He said, sliding off the bed silently. He then walked over to his own, getting into it wordlessly and turning to face the wall, closing his eyes and tucking his knees up to his chest.

Sherlock stared at him, confused. After a while he got up to turn off the light and got back into his bed. He lay on his back, wide awake and staring up at the light blue ceiling. Thinking.

He thought about John. About his odd reactions.

He thought about John's father and the way he had hit John that first day in the car. The way the man's face contorted between the emotions of hatred and agony. The way he leered at him. But then at other times the way he looked at him with a different kind of intensity that wasn't completely anger. There was something else in those hidden looks which Sherlock couldn't quite figure out, but he had a feeling it was important - he just didn't know _why._

There was so much data missing. So many blank pages in the folder that was John Watson.

He thought he had known John. He thought the data was obvious. Black and white like everyone else.

But now Sherlock was starting to see other colours bleeding through the paper.

It was at 11:28 that night that Sherlock remembered Jim's note;

_You want to prove it? _

_Room 401C. _

_Midnight._

_ Xxx_

He bolted upright in his bed and threw a quick glance at John's still form. He had 32 minutes to decide whether or not he was going to meet Jim.

There were few choices and little time.

On the one hand he could go. Play Jim's game. He wasn't certain what exactly that would entail but he was sure that it would be something he would regret and may even cost him John and his trust.

John trusted Sherlock now and he could tell that it wasn't something he gave out often. John was fragile, his heart had been broken and Sherlock was merely the glue attempting to hold him together. After tonight, if he went through with Jim's request, it would be the ending hit; shattering John's heart into millions of pieces and throwing them into infinity; eternally irreparable.

However if he did not go, well that could lead to something even more destructive and terrifying.

If he didn't go, Jim would know. He would know where Sherlock's heart truly stood. He would know he could never have him while John was alive and Jim never let anything stop him from getting what he wanted.

This meant losing John in a different way. It meant _really _losing him and Sherlock didn't know if he could live with that. It was so strange_, _Sherlock thought_, _how quickly someone could work their way into your life without even trying, and leave you so oblivious to it until you realise you might lose them. That's what they say though, he mused, you only really know how much you love something once you've lost it.

Well not today, Sherlock decided, if he had to lose John someday then so be it, but not today.

And with that thought, he placed the note down on his dresser, stood and made his way quietly over to the door. He grabbed his coat which was hanging on the back of it and turned back to John's sleeping form one last time and whispered; "I don't know if you'll ever forgive me for this John, but just know, I do it for you, I do it _all_ for you."

And with that, he walked out of 221B and headed down the stairs towards room 401C.

He reached the room after a whole ten minutes, not realising that the corridor he had intended to take to Moriarty's room was blocked off due to a radiator leakage throughout the whole corridor, delaying him, making it 12:10 as he made to knock on Moriarty's door. But as he lifted a fist he saw something in the half light of the corridor; a small, yellow unravelled scroll. Sherlock pulled it off the door; reading it.

**_And so the devil said run and the sinner ran..._**

**_P.S_**

**_You should never leave your loved ones alone, Sherlock._**

Sherlock froze.

"_John_." He breathed.

**So that's it for chapter 7 guys! Ooh I do love a good cliff hanger haha! So please review and tell me what you think, share any thoughts on the story or maybe even where you'd like it to go? So yeah, thanks for reading! Until next time... :D **


	8. The Darkest Hour

**Chapter eight - Part One**

**The darkest hour...**

**Well my readers we are now on chapter 8, and out of what I have no idea as I really can't be sure where this fic will end or where it's even headed really haha :p**

**Oh yes, important notice; I had to split this chapter into two because I got too carried away with it and wrote like four and half thousand words...So! That means double chapters for you! Oh it's like Christmas! Haha or maybe something a bit more depressing...? So yeah I will post the next part of this chapter later tonight or tomorrow... :D**

**Oh and thanks again to all the lovely reviewers and followers! And to all of you who have stuck with this story, and to any newbies; welcome! :D **

**So yeah, prepare for some pretty major angst in this chapter...sorry about that ;) **

**Anyway, enjoy!...**

Sherlock felt his knees go weak. His body had locked, his eyes staring at the note on the door with a glazed over expression. Then a switch flicked. His mind raced, his body surged with adrenaline; blood running through his veins desperately trying to supply his brain so he could think. But he didn't think. He couldn't think. He just _felt_. And that feeling was complete and utter terror.

His legs began running before his mind could process it.

As he ran his mind was solely focused on John. _His_ John. He had to save John. That's all he knew. He didn't know how he just knew he had to.

Sherlock had never let his whole body become overtaken by raw emotion. It was foreign to him. It felt simultaneously terrifying and wonderful. Never before had his whole being emanated with feeling. But now he felt it doing just that. His body burned with it, his mind felt more alive than it ever had. The feeling was so strong that he knew it would either be the making or the end of him and he didn't want to even consider it being the latter.

Sherlock had always despised sentiment. It was a chemical defect found on the losing side. But now he didn't care. He would happily die now having been able to experience this moment of sheer _feeling_.

But also he realised his previous theory of sentiment had been incorrect. John was not his weakness, he was his _strength. _

It was because of John that he was able to _feel. _John was this entity that his heart had been seeking for years, his mind just hadn't known it yet.

Sherlock always felt like he had been living half alive, never satisfied, always searching for something...he just didn't know what. The thing that had been missing, the void - it was John. John completed him. And Sherlock wasn't about to lose him now when he had only just found him.

As he finished this thought he found that his legs had taken him to room 221B and he was now stood outside the door.

He had to be careful about this. He couldn't let his heart rule his head when it came to Moriarty. He had to be one step ahead. Always. He placed his ear against the door and listened intently; trying to deduce the scene behind the door.

Jim prowled towards John's sleeping form like a panther, stalking its prey. His feet moved fluidly and silent over the carpeted floor.

John was lying on his side facing the wall away from Jim. _Perfect, _he thought, _ah Johnny boy this is just too easy. I didn't have to do anything and yet here you lie; vulnerable, wounded. Broken. Well, almost broken. You're standing over the ledge. It wont take much to give you that final push - sending you flying into the abyss. Lost forever. All it takes is one last little move and the game is complete._

He leaned over him; his lips hovering over John's ear as he whispered softly;

"Hello Johnny boy."

John stirred and his body stiffened slightly. Very slightly. But Jim still noticed. But he didn't wake, as Jim had predicted.

He then ran a lean hand very lightly along John's spine then along his arm, placing a cold hand over the finger tip bruises which he could not see, as John always wore long sleeves, but he knew were there. A soft, fading blue - fading but certainly not forgotten.

"Remember me, Johnny?" He adjusted his voice to a huskier, older man's tone but still soft like a whisper.

This time John shivered and his face contorted in dream like panic, his eyes still shut tight.

"No...no...please...not again...not tonight...I've been _good - _I've not told anyone...not again - _please." _

He spoke in a sleepy slur, his mind drifting between consciousness but the last word came out choked.

There was a noise outside the door and Jim smiled. _Too easy. It's all just too easy. _

Outside the door Sherlock was sure that streams of red were starting to seep their way into his vision as he wrenched the door open and crossed the room in three long, determined strides.

The sudden bang of the door as he slammed it woke John abruptly, who bolted upright and pushed himself off the bed and into the corner of the wall, hands braced in front of him, shaking.

"Get away from me! Get _off_ me!" Then as his eyes found the form that had been leaning over him he said; "Jim?! What _the hell_ are you doing?!"

But Jim had no time to reply as Sherlock had already run at him, grabbing him by the collar and shoving him up against the wall, baring his teeth at him. Seething.

"Don't you _ever _touch him again."

He spoke in a low, violent whisper through gritted teeth. Trying to remain calm but his voice betrayed him, cracking towards the end.

He then glanced towards John who was looking up at them from the corner with a worried expression.

"Sherlock...stop..."

"No John. You stop." He then turned back to Jim who was smiling up at him menacingly.

"What did John mean by 'not again'? I heard it all. Don't try to deny it." When Jim just smiled up at him Sherlock shoved his hand up further, so that Moriarty's collar was straining tightly against his neck.

Had Jim done this before? How was that even possible? Sherlock had been by John's side almost entire time they had been here. _Almost_. No. John would never allow it, he would never touch something as foul and inhuman as Moriarty...but a small voice in his head countered _he touched you didn't he? Are you really that different? _No. He _was_ different. He _cared_ about John. John cared about him. Jim did not _care_. He wanted to _hurt _John because..._because_ _of Sherlock._ Realisation washed over Sherlock. It was _his_ fault. This was all his fault. Again. He was like a poison, infecting everything he touched.

_And so the devil said run and the sinner ran..._

Stupid. _Stupid_. Sherlock had thought he was ahead. He thought he was better. But it turned out that Jim was always one step ahead of him. Sherlock felt a wave of chagrin hit him as he realised that the bitter thing was that he had only just figured that out now. When it was too late. Jim had tricked him. Once again though it had been little on his part. Sherlock had walked into this one himself and this time it had hurt John. He was the true inhuman one. He had let someone so wonderful break beneath his own grasp.

Sherlock was pulled out of his reverie by a soft voice that sounded in front of him.

"Yes, Sherlock. I think I proved my point, don't you? I said come and come you did. You followed your curiosity, you put your desire for danger before what you believed your heart wanted. You and I are the _same_ Sherlock. We are incapable of feelings so pedestrian as love. Because we are so much _more_ than that. Join me Sherlock at the top. Leave this level of the mundane behind."

Sherlock glared at him but his eyes flickered with a glint of curiosity, _temptation._ But he pushed it down immediately, righting himself.

Then Jim turned to John, still addressing Sherlock though, he said; "You know, sometimes it's what they don't say that tells you the most." He gestured over to John with his head and then he averted his eyes to lock with John's saying;

"And by the way I don't know what all the fuss was about Johnny boy. We both know you liked it really."

Sherlock frowned at Jim in confusion. He had a feeling that Jim wasn't referring to what had happened just now, but if not then, then what was he referring to? Sherlock sensed rather than saw a sudden movement behind him. He released Jim and turned just in time to see John throw himself at Jim with an almighty force, punching him over and over with a look of madness that Sherlock had never seen before in John's usually soft, warm eyes.

"TAKE. THAT. BACK." He roared. Striking Jim with an even more brutal force than before. Eyes wild. Face livid. But there was also a tortured look beneath the anger which Sherlock couldn't comprehend.

Sherlock stood stock still, shocked. Never before had he seen or imagined John to have struck out at someone so unprovoked. John had such strong moralistic values...and he would have thought that considering what his father had done to him, he would never raise a hand to anyone else anyway...but then he supposed the victim would always go on either one of two paths...the one who saves the next person, or the one who bullies them...it was at this point that Sherlock realised what John was doing.

Part of him wanted to leave him to beat up Jim, but the other half knew that it would only put John in more trouble than it was worth.

He grabbed John from behind, who struggled and kicked and threw his arms about wildly.

"John! _John! _It's not worth it, John. Stop."

But it was Jim's next few words that caused John to still.

"Like father like son, eh Johnny boy? _Those to whom evil is done do evil in return_. I guess the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree." Jim smiled viciously as John froze, horror stricken. He looked down at his own hands as if they were someone else's, attached to the end if his arms. Then he looked like he might be sick.

"I am _nothing_ like him." He finally said, under his breath.

"If it helps you sleep at night..."Jim smiled and then he turned back to Sherlock and said; " I wonder, has he told you told you everything Sherlock?...Have you John? Told him all about it?"

John bristled. "Shut up."

"Ooh this _is _good! He hasn't has he?" His eyes flickered between them playfully.

"Oh Sherlock, if only you knew the _half_ of it."

"Stop it. Stop it _now_."

Sherlock looked at John, questioningly. What was it John was hiding? Why did Jim know and Sherlock didn't? Why didn't John trust him?

"John?" He asked, carefully.

John looked at the floor. Sherlock turned to Jim instead. "What's that supposed to mean? I've had enough of this game now Jim."

Jim beamed at him. Then looked at John, "Ooh should you tell him or shall I? Oh it's a good one Sherlock, John would love to tell it I'm sure. He might even act it out for you-"

"GET. OUT." John barked. "NOW."

"Oh, I think I'm finished here anyway. Oh and John, our secrets are what keep us close. I would say that you and I are about to become _very _close, wouldn't you? Ciao boys."

And with that he walked out of room 221B, treading over the masses of destruction he had left behind him with each soft, measured foot step.

**So** **yeah** **that's part one! Part two will be up soon! Review and let me know what you think!**

**:D**


	9. Is Just Before the Dawn

**Chapter Eight - Part Two**

**...Is Just Before the Dawn.**

**So guys this is part two of chapter eight! I don't know why I didn't just call it chapter nine because now i've just made this a whole lot more confusing than it should be pahaha I guess it's just because these two parts are like made to be together aha - like Sherlock and John ;)**

**So if you haven't already noticed the titles of these two parts join to make the beautiful quote; "The darkest hour is just before the dawn" Which I think is a deeply encouraging little quote and very true! So if you're going through a bad time just remember that little quote and 'this too shall pass' -anyway enough of the quoting ;) **

**So yeah, enjoy!...**

After Moriarty's departure Sherlock and John had just stood in silence. Neither could tell you how long for, it could have been seconds, minutes, hours... Time was irrelevant now. Both were lost in their own thoughts, wandering aimlessly around their minds in circles, lost.

It was Sherlock who disturbed the blanket of silence which had settled over them as he said;

"Care to explain what that was all about?"

John flinched as if he had been suddenly woken from a bad dream. He then walked over to his bed and began rifling through his books, grabbing a pen from a drawer and beginning to write, saying; "What what was all about?"

"You can't be serious. You're not really going to try that one are you? Out of all the pathetic evasion techniques that is _by far_ the worst."

John's knuckles clenched around the pen he was holding but he kept his eyes down and gritted his teeth as he said in a feigned calm "Well it was just Moriarty being Moriarty. Trying to mess with our heads. Don't over think it, it'll do you no good." John's voice was perfectly steady but he could see a faint tremor in the hand that was resting beside him on the bed.

"Oh please. Don't try and fool me John you must know by now it is impossible and besides you're a terrible liar."

"Not when I have to be." He replied in a low murmur.

"What is that supposed to mean? John, what the _hell_ is going on? And I know there's something - I just haven't figured out _what_ yet -" He began pacing furiously.

John looked up at this, eyes set like stone. "Just drop it Sherlock. It's nothing."

"Oh mark my words, I will find out. I always do. I'll never give up." He stalked up to John, looking down at him from his full height. "Even if it means asking Moriarty, I'm sure he'd _love_ to tell me."

John surged up, standing to meet Sherlock's intense gaze, their noses almost touching. He stood just a little shorter than Sherlock, but his glare was just as powerful. "I _said_ drop it, Sherlock."

"Or what?"

"Or you _will_ regret it."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

They stared at each other intensely, unyielding. But then Sherlock's eyes darkened, his eyes dropped to John's mouth and his tongue darted over his lips subconsciously. John stiffened and his pupils dilated, turning his eyes almost completely black with desire. His breath hitched as Sherlock's lips twitched at the corner, curving them into a seductive smile.

John tried to speak but Sherlock silenced him by swooping down and pressing his lips against John's roughly. He pushed John backwards until his back hit the wall forcefully, extracting a small gasp from him as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair, resting it at the nape of his neck, angling his jaw to gain access to John's mouth, running his tongue along John's lower lip, and darting a tongue between his lips, deepening the kiss.

John melted beneath Sherlock, his lips moving urgently against Sherlock's full, plump ones. Time seemed to stop, or speed up so fast that he couldn't feel it passing. He couldn't tell which. The essence of Sherlock surrounded him, Sherlock was all he could see, feel, smell...nothing else mattered. Not now, in this moment.

The kiss suddenly grew more heated as Sherlock hummed against John's lips. The reverberation sent shivers of pleasure down his spine. There tongues met shyly at first but then they danced in perfect timing with each other as the feeling overcame them.

But then it happened.

John was threading his fingers through Sherlock's curls, tugging them slightly, this almost sent Sherlock over the metaphorical ledge of euphoria and his hands left the nape of Johns neck and ran down his body, caressing his lean torso.

But then he reached his arms.

His long fingers curled tightly around Johns arms as he tried to push him harder against the wall, press himself even closer to John.

_Need to be closer. Never close enough._

This was when John panicked. His whole body tightened and his chest constricted painfully. He felt like the walls were closing in, the ceiling falling. Those memories came fleeting back, marring his thoughts and vision.

_He was alone in a dark room with a bay window at the side of the bed and a dark figure leaning over him heavily, breathing into his neck, wrapping strong fingers around his arms, trapping him._

He felt sick. His head span and he felt his eyes sting.

John pushed against Sherlock, trying to shout out, tell him to stop. But this just made Sherlock press harder against him, forcing Johns mouth back open, breath racing.

John finally broke his mouth away as Sherlock dipped his head to bite Johns neck. But as Sherlock's teeth grazed his skin John gasped for breath and shouted; "No! Stop! _Stop_. I can't. I _can't_. _Please."_

Sherlock froze immediately but he did not move away from John, he just stood completely still, pressed against John, resting his forehead on Johns shoulder; breathing hard.

"I'm sorry." John whispered. Sherlock said nothing for a few moments, just breathing in and out, breath ghosting over Johns neck.

John shifted slightly and Sherlock said; "What's wrong with me?" He didn't look at John as he said this, his face hidden in John's shoulder, but John could almost feel the vulnerability and hurt seeping through his words.

Johns heart ached at that. How could Sherlock possibly think something was wrong with _him_? Could he not see how utterly perfect he was? How he made John's heart skip. How he invaded John's thoughts. How every time he saw Sherlock he couldn't help smiling like a love-sick fool.

Sherlock made him feel _alive_. Before Sherlock, he had been walking around the world like a broken toy; unwanted, unloved. But when he was with Sherlock he felt like maybe he wasn't so irreparable. Maybe the world could be something to enjoy and really _live_ in. Sherlock illuminated the world and everything in it, he brought warmth and light and _beauty._

And now he was about to lose that light. Maybe even extinguish it himself...

John placed a hand gently on Sherlock's cheek, stroking it with his thumb lightly.

"Nothing. _Nothing_. You are so perfect. How can you not see that?"

"Maybe because every time I try to get closer to you...or touch you, you act like your disgusted by me." He spoke quite bitterly but John could tell that there wasn't really any heat in it, just hurt.

"Sherlock. I - look. It's not you. It has nothing to do with you -"

"Oh let me guess _it's not you it's me_." He lifted his head now to glare down at John, disapprovingly.

Feeling Sherlock's intense gaze on him made him feel exposed. He averted his eyes to the ground as he said; "I know how it sounds but this time it really is."

"Okay then." Sherlock challenged, "Go on then John, tell me, what is it about _you _that makes _me _so repelling?"

John looked up at him with a grave expression. And then he said flatly; "I don't know."

"Of course you _know. You_ know. _Jim _knows. _I _however, do not know and I am sick and tired of it. I just can't _stand_ it John. Why would you tell Jim Moriarty and not me? Do you not trust me?"

"There's nothing to tell!" John tried desperately.

"No. Stop _lying_ to me John!"

Johns chest started to constrict again and his blood was pumping violently through his veins. His lefthand began to tremor as he looked around desperately for a way of escape.

"Look at you! You're obviously hiding something! It's written all over you! I don't know what it is but from what I heard yesterday I don't think I even want to know."

"What did you hear?" asked John in panic.

"Enough."

John stared in horror as Sherlock continued; "And from what was said I'm guessing your having some sort of secret relationship with someone. And evidence says it's Moriarty which frankly is quite disturbing. He's a _snake_ John. He doesn't _care_ about you. But I-..." he trailed off and started again; "So I'll ask you again; if you are willing to shag Moriarty then _what_ is wrong with _me_?"

He stopped talking and drew in a few measuring breaths.

"I'm not shagging Moriarty!" John exclaimed, exasperated.

"Well you've been shagging _someone_." Sherlock countered.

John shivered slightly at these words, only slightly, but it did not go unnoticed.

"No I haven't."

"So you are trying to tell me that there is nothing going on between you and Jim Moriarty?"

John, thinking he had won, said "Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you. Now can w-" But Sherlock cut him off.

" So," he undertook a slightly strangled sounding quality to his voice as he quoted; "'No...no...please...not again...not tonight...I've been _good - _I've not told anyone...not again - _please.'_ Was all just nothing then."

John gaped at him, horror stricken. _"_What...when did...why are you doing that? Stop it! Stop that!"

"So that means something to you then?"

"No." John lied.

"Oh really? Want me to repeat it? Maybe it'll sink in better a second time...No...n-"

"Oh God _please_ stop it! _Stop_ it. Sherlock. _Please_." John's back had found the wall and he slid down it, putting his head in his hands, quivering.

Sherlock was taken aback and felt terribly guilty as soon as he had said the words. Now he walked over to John and slid down the wall next to him.

"I'm sorry."

John didn't lift his head but he did stop shaking.

"I'm so messed up, Sherlock." He said after a while, resignedly. "A while ago...something...I...something happened and...well it messed me up. I've never told anyone and I never can. Because if I do then someone I care about might get hurt too. Jim Moriarty...I don't know how...or why...but he found out. He knows Sherlock and I don't know what I'm going to do..." His voice cracked towards the end and Sherlock who had remained silent and thoughtful throughout stared at John and then put a tentative arm around him and pulled him in towards him, hugging him. It was a silent gesture but in that hug Sherlock tried to convey everything he was feeling in that moment; guilt, empathy, protection, comfort...even his own slightly distorted, ineffable and utterly complex version of love. And John felt it all. And in that moment, for the first time since the night it had happened, he did not bottle it up and push it down. Head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, he clung to him and cried long repressed, silent tears

At first Sherlock was unsure of what to do. No one had ever opened up to him before. Shared a part of themselves willingly. Exposed themselves raw, seeking comfort in him. He had always had to find it for himself. That had always worked for him before now, before John. But this. What John had just shared with him, whether it was only a glimpse or more into the deepest darkest parts of himself, made Sherlock feel special. Important. They had shared something and despite John's thoughts that it would possibly push people away from him like most dark secrets do, it had only brought them _closer_.

With this thought in mind he clung to John too, holding onto him with all his strength and deciding that he would happily sit there forever and never let go.

After a while of just sitting and holding one another, John said; "I suppose we should probably get to bed."

"Oh, yes. Of course." Sherlock spoke stiffly, realizing he had gotten lost in his own thought - detached from time completely. Of course they couldn't stay here like this forever. Besides John probably wanted some space.

But as they got up and Sherlock made his way over to his own bed, pulling back the covers, John said; "Actually I was um - wondering if you would um-" He glanced over to his own bed awkwardly and Sherlock's eyes brightened.

"You want me to sleep with you."

"Well - not - I mean just sleep - yes." John said, flustered by Sherlock's abruptly blunt statements as always.

"Well of course. What else would we be doing?" And for a second John thought Sherlock was seriously puzzled by the idea of what two people could get up to in a bed other than sleeping until he smirked at him in a wide grin and John laughed realizing he had just been given a glimpse into Sherlockian humour. It felt good to laugh after all that had just happened, it made him feel lighter.

"Yeah...it's just well I used to get nightmares after..." he trailed off and started again; "and well with all of what's happened tonight...I just thought.."

"The happenings of tonight have brought back memories of this particular incident which is haunting you, so you believe that having someone next to you will help with this, or wake you if you start having a nightmare."

"Yes." John said, relieved that Sherlock had said it for him. "I don't mind if you'd rather not -"

"No of course I will."

"Thanks." John got into his bed and shuffled over towards the wall, making room for Sherlock. Sherlock turned off the light and then made his way blindly across the room towards John's bed, finding it as the corner of it collided with his left shin. Sherlock swore under his breath and limped up to the middle of the bed and got in.

"You okay?" John asked, stifling a laugh.

"Fine." Sherlock said curtly and John could almost imagine a pout forming on those 'cupids bow' lips of his and this only deepened his amusement.

"I see you find my pain humorous." Sherlock whispered softly into the darkness.

"Very." Said a bemused John, sighing in contentedness. Sherlock turned on his side and rested his head on John's shoulder, looking up at his face and trying to make out the shape in the darkness. He could just make out the lines of his nose, cheeks and lips and he took them in greedily; trying to remember the exact shape of John's face so he could visit it in his mind palace any time he liked and just revel in the brilliance that was John Watson.

"Thanks." John whispered after a while.

"What for?"

"Everything."

Sherlock kissed John's shoulder softly and whispered in his low baritone; "You're welcome. Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

And with those last words they drifted into the realm of sleep, completely and utterly content.

**Well! That was quite a long, angst filled chapter! Thought I'd make it a little lighter at the end aha :p**

**So yeah as usual, please review and tell me what you think or let me know if you have any ideas for how you would like the story to go maybe? **

**Oh by the way I'm reading the kite runner at the moment guys and it is so beautiful - sad and quite depressing - but fantastic! I would highly recommend it!**

**Bye for now my readers!**

**:D**


	10. You are my salvation

**Chapter ten**

**You Are My Salvation**

**A/N: So...I'm not exactly sure where this chapter is headed or what the point of it is really...it's kind of a filler chapter or a 'the morning after' chapter maybe? But of course with a little bit of angst ;) Aha..I feel like I've sort of gone off on one of those mad writer's tangents...But hey ho...I'll put it up anyway and try and figure out where exactly I'm going to go with this story... :P Anyway I'll leave you to read now... :D**

John woke early the next morning to find a sleeping Sherlock snuggled up to him tightly. He had one arm draped over John's chest possessively as well as a leg hitched over one of John's. His head was burrowed into John's chest, ear resting over his heart as if he had been listening to the steady beat of it as he fell asleep.

The image before him sent waves of warmth to his very core and he wriggled slightly under Sherlock, attempting to feel even closer if that were at all possible, smiling in utter contentment.

He honestly couldn't remember ever being this happy. He thought about how different his life had become since he had met Sherlock Holmes. John searched his memory for a time when he had been hugged like this, but his mind could conjure no such time. And yet now he was lying in his bed - safe, happy and being _cuddled _by Sherlock Holmes of all people. Brilliant, enigmatic, genius Sherlock. Who was also now; kind, comforting, loving Sherlock.

Although John realised that these were not usual or frequent aspects of Sherlock's character, he believed that they were parts of him that had always _been _but just kept hidden, rather than being new developments. People just hadn't given him the _chance_ to be kind.

As John lay silently contemplating, he felt Sherlock stir and sigh softly before his eyelids fluttered, opening to reveal two large, azure eyes. But that was only in this lighting. Sherlock's eyes truly were indescribable. The colour changed with the lighting as much as it did with his mood.

But now those brilliant eyes stared up at him, adoring, as if the sun shone from John's own. And his lips spread into a broad grin as he said "Good morning."

"That it is." Said John, unabashedly happy.

"It's Saturday today. That means we've got the whole day to ourselves. We could go into the village if you like. It's not far from school - about a ten minute walk."

"Sounds good." He smiled, "Not even a week in and I'm already eager to see the back of this place."

Sherlock laughed. "I don't blame you." But then he sobered slightly, asking, "If you could, would you go back home? Back to your old school?"

John thought for a moment and then said, "You know, at first I was pretty devastated to leave - my school that is. Not home. But now...I dunno, I think...well I've never had someone quite like you in my life before...and well, it feels like I've gone in for a penny and come out with a pound...I'm sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense..."

"That's what I like best about you. You don't make sense. Every time I think I've got you figured out, you surprise me." He smiled but then added, looking pensive; "And I'm not often surprised."

"Oh is that it, I'm a puzzle to be solved." John joked lightly. "It's starting to make a lot more sense why you stick with me now."

But Sherlock turned his face fully towards him, pushing himself up and leaning over John, arms bracing him and placed either side of John's head. "I _stick with you_ John Watson, because you are brilliant. You are kind and brave, even though you don't know it, and you somehow manage to ground me while making me feel like I'm soaring upwards, never to fall down, simultaneously. But most of all, I stick with you because you are _you_, John. and that is a _fantastic _thing to be. And don't let _anyone_ ever tell you otherwise."

Sherlock was breathing heavily, recovering from his slightly rushed but truly honest speech. John just exhaled once, staring at him wide eyed and then he grabbed Sherlock's shirt and pulled him down on top of him roughly, crushing their lips together desperately.

Sherlock responded to the kiss immediately, shifting his legs to straddle John's hips. John ran his fingers though Sherlock's hair, tugging at his curls as he had before, extracting a small whimper from Sherlock. John decided it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard as he rolled them over suddenly, John now sitting on top of Sherlock who looked slightly shocked and then he raised his head to capture John's lips again in his. John broke their lips apart just for a moment to whisper; "You're not often surprised, but when you are it's _quite_ adorable." He smiled down at him playfully.

Sherlock stared at him eyes wide and laughed, but was then silenced by John pressing butterfly kisses to his neck, moving down in a line towards his collar bone. Sherlock closed his eyes and ran a hand down John's back - carefully avoiding John's arms this time. He didn't know why that was a sensitive point, but he had noticed it nonetheless.

After a morning of lazy kisses wrapped up in covers and warmth, they finally decided to leave the bed and go into the village.

As they exited through the school gates and were walking along the road, Sherlock felt the impulse to hold John's hand. But they hadn't exactly discussed that sort of _thing_ yet. Come to think of it, they hadn't really discussed _any_ of it yet. Sherlock knew that they weren't _just friends_, but they weren't exactly _in a relationship_ either.

It was with this thought that Sherlock was reminded why he had always seen relationships as tedious and complicated.

They were simply _themselves_. Sherlock and John. They were not two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle which fit perfectly together to form one whole. They had their scuffed edges, faults in their paintwork. They _were_ however, two people who found a sort of solace in one another. Two people who _wanted_ each other. _Needed_ each other. And wasn't that enough? Why the need to label something so wonderful and unique with such a prosaic term? Categorize it, just so it fits in neatly with the rest of society.

What they had was singular and it was _theirs. _But still Sherlock could not help thinking; _and what is **it **exactly?_

But as he was pondering over this, he felt John grab his hand and thread his fingers between Sherlock's. Sherlock looked down at him; calculating, but John simply smiled back up at him and then faced forward again and carried on walking. _Hand holding is acceptable then. _

Sherlock squeezed John's hand gently and felt his lips tug at the corners, forming a small, private smile. Holding John's hand was more than acceptable, it was fantastic.

"Fancy a coffee then?" John asked as they approached the local village, nodding towards the coffee shop on their right called Angelo's.

"Most definitely." Sherlock smiled.

As John went up to the counter to order their coffees - Sherlock's; black, two sugars, John's; cappuccino - Sherlock found them a table at the back.

The woman at the counter told him to go and take a seat, smiling at him and telling him she'd bring their drinks over in a minute. John thanked her and turned to walk over to Sherlock, but as he did he saw an all too familiar figure sitting opposite Sherlock.

He squared his shoulders and walked forward briskly, grabbing a chair from another table and sitting it next to Sherlock. He glowered at the floor, refusing to grace Jim with his gaze.

Jim smiled at him and said; "Ah, John. Nice of you to join us." John drew his eyes from the floor and threw a dark glare at Jim, then turned his head to Sherlock saying "Look. Let's just go."

"Oh John. You're not going anywhere." Jim said in a soft, dangerous tone.

John raised his eye brows challengingly and stood, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him up with him. "Sherlock. We're leaving." Sherlock stared at him; calculating, but rising all the same.

"Come now John, remember what I told you; our secrets keep us close. I sincerely hope you're not trying to avoid me."

John froze, grinding his teeth. Sherlock looked between them quickly, desperate to find something, _anything_ that would give away this _secret_.

"Sit, Johnny boy."

John flinched at the pet name and turned swiftly to look down at Jim with a muted anger. That was when he saw the consequences of his anger from the previous night. One of Jim's eyes was purple and swollen and he had a bust lip, along with other small cuts scattered across his face.

"You did cause quite a mess to my face, John. It's quite the inconvenience."

John gave a short, humourless laugh and said quietly in a severe tone "Touch me again and I won't hold back this time."

Jim just smiled darkly at him, "My patience is wearing thin Johnny boy. Sit."

"You can't _make _me do anything. You don't scare me."

Jim looked pensive as he said, "No, true, but I _do_ know someone who does. Have you seen how he is around him, Sherlock? It's quite sweet really, such a submissive little puppy when he's afraid. He'll do _anything. _But you know what the sweetest part is? It's not a fear for himself, but a fear for _someone else_. That's how you _own_ John Watson, you hurt the thing he _loves_. Isn't that so romantic Sherlock. But...also, so _pathetic_." His eyes darkened. "To _care_ so much." He said the word as though it tasted sour on his tongue. "It makes you weak. Vulnerable. Wouldn't you agree Sherlock?"

Sherlock only stared at him, analysing between Jim's masked words.

John was stood stiffly, glaring at a point on the wall of the café. His hand seemed to have taken on a slight tremor which was noticed by both Sherlock and Moriarty.

"Sit down, John. Don't make me really try to scare you." His eyes flickered over Sherlock and John's followed. He swallowed back his pride and clenched his fists, then took Sherlock's hand again and sat down.

Sherlock attempted to slide his hand out of John's; aware of Jim's ever knowing gaze. If Jim knew how much he cared about John, if he knew his weakness, it could only end badly.

But of course, Jim hadn't missed a thing and his eyes followed as John's now free hand fell beneath the table to rest protectively on Sherlock's knee.

"What's going on here Sherlock? You told me John wasn't into boys...Ooh you are naughty. I hope you weren't lying to me."

John looked up at Sherlock with a hurt look. "So this is just friendship to you then?" He said under his breath, slowly sliding his hand off Sherlock's knee.

"John. Not now." Sherlock hissed.

"Why? Because Jims here? Because you don't want him to know that you're currently with someone so _pathetic_."

"_John_." Sherlock warned him. "Don't do this." He whispered, desperate to protect him from Moriarty's gaze which was seeping with comprehension.

He smiled up at them. "Oh_ boys. _That _is_ sweet. Isn't it?" But he wasn't asking them, he seemed to be speaking to himself now. "Sherlock and John." His eyes suddenly darkened as he added "Yes. Very _sweet_."

"Although...I never would have taken you for the type to _settle_ for something, Sherlock."

John clenched his fist under the table.

"But is it worth it, Sherlock, really? Trying to love something so _broken_? I bet he still freaks out when you touch him..." His black eyes seemed to travel to an even deeper level of darkness as he leaned over the small table closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't flinch away from Jim's approaches, adamant to remain in power and unaffected by Jim.

"Does it make you _mad_, Sherlock..." He leaned closer still. "That you can't run your fingers down his arms, _pin them against the wall_..." He ran a lean finger along Sherlock's arm as he spoke. "...That when your hot breath ghosts over his neck he panics..." Jim's lips brushed ever so slightly over Sherlock's neck. Sherlock felt his eyes flutter closed for a fleeting second and a pressure building within him, before the loud screech of John's chair grounded him again, as he got to his feet suddenly.

"Right. Get off him. _Now_." John growled.

Jim smiled up at him wickedly, utterly pleased with himself.

"And I bet he _still hasn't told you why." _With that, he stood swiftly, smirked at the two tense forms stood before him and walked out of the café, never looking back. He didn't need to. He was well aware of the damage he had left behind him.

The waitress came up to their table and offered them their drinks but John pushed past her, seething. He stalked out of the café and began walking furiously down an alley way, no clue where he was going, knowing he just had to get _out_. Sherlock stood in shock for a moment, processing all that had just happened and filing it away for later observation. Then he ran after John calling "John! Wait! Where are you going? John. _Stop_." John wheeled around to glare at Sherlock.

"You two make _quite_ the couple."

"_Excuse_ me?" Sherlock countered. "I'll have you know I had no part in that. Whatever this ridiculous game between you two is."

"_Well_, you certainly didn't try and _stop_ it! If anyone's the _submissive puppy_ it's you!" John shouted breathlessly.

"John." Sherlock said calmly, understanding why John had latched onto those words out of all Jim had said. "I didn't do anything."

"Exactly!"

"You're not making any sense John!"

John tried to steady his breathing as he said "You could have done _something_. _Said_ something."

"And what good would that have done? He wants a reaction John, you give that to him and you only feed his interest."

"Well you certainly gave him one alright."

"What?"

"What is this? What are we? Why won't you label it, tell Jim?"

"Why do we _need_ to put a label on it? We just _are_."

"That doesn't _mean_ anything though!"

"Well does it need to? Do you have to understand something to love it?"

This stopped John in his tracks. "What did you say?"

"What? Nothing I was just...I just meant..."

"Oh."

"Look John I...

"No Sherlock, _you_ Look. I know okay. I get it. He's _right_. That's the worst part. The bastard is _right_. I am broken. You can't just study me and find a solution. I'm not a problem to be solved. There is no salvation for people like me. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. It just doesn't exist, and it never has...So you should just stop wasting your time with someone like me."

Sherlock just stared at him, brows furrowed. "What is it that you've done to make yourself feel so unsalvageable?"

"_Sherlock_. Please. Don't make me answer that."

"John how are we meant to be something if you don't even trust me? If you can't tell me things."

"You can have anything of me, Sherlock. I'd do anything for you. Just don't make me give you this. Please."

"John I can't stand this. What am I supposed to do when you won't even tell me things? How am I supposed to be with you?"

"You don't. Because you can't. Nobody can. Not now."

John raised his hands in a motion of giving in and turned to walk away.

Sherlock stared, wide eyed as he watched John walk away from him. _No. That's not how it's supposed to end. _

"Could I not be it?" John heard Sherlock call in a small voice. John stopped, but didn't turn around.

"Could I not be your...salvation? Because I would be John, if I could. I _want_ to be. I want to so badly it hurts. I don't care about this secret, not if it means losing you. Because know this John, I will _always_ choose you. Over anything. _Anyone_. You are _always_ my choice."

John turned around slowly, eyes carrying a weight of sadness.

"But you've got to let me, John. _Let me_ help you. _Please." _Sherlock's voice seemed to incline an octave on his last word and he just stood breathing shallowly, looking away.

John began walking towards Sherlock, then stopped. Biting down on his lower lip he exhaled heavily and then threw himself forward, crashing into Sherlock and capturing those lips with his own.

He broke them apart long enough to whisper; "I'm such an idiot. I didn't _know_. I didn't see it."

"What are y-"

"You already are. Day by day, you _do_ save me. You _are_ saving me, Sherlock."

Sherlock just smiled up at him broadly, eyes blown. "The feeling is mutual John." And then he pressed their lips together clumsily, rekindling the heat of the moment.

From a narrow side alley, a few paces away, a pale face with dark eyes saw the happiness before him and watched with a patient smile. _Soon. _He thought.

**Well that's the end of this chapter guys, like I said...not quite sure where it was headed or what were in for next, but stick with it and I'll think of something ;) I'm trying to head towards a Christmas chapter and then end it there at New year...but THEN make a sequel, which delves a bit more into Sherlock and his past and carries on with the rest of their school year. Now this is talking quite ahead of ourselves and there will be quite a few more chapters to go with this part of the 'series' but do you think maybe you'd be interested in a sequel? If so I'd be delighted to write one! ;D As always, review and let me know what you think. :)**

**Thanks my lovely readers,**

**:D**


	11. Brother Dearest

**Chapter eleven**

**Brother Dearest**

**A/N: So, we've reached chapter 11 now! Sorry about taking so long to update! I know, I know, it's terrible of me aha ;) But! It is the longest one yet..? So you know...every cloud. ;D**

**Thanks again to everyone who has stuck with this story! And many thanks to all who have reviewed, followed, favourited.. You guys are great! :D **

**Now, on with the story...**

The next few weeks seemed to pass them by in a blur. The work load from their teachers had increased sizeably as they were approaching the Christmas holidays and so they spent the majority of their free time in 221B, lounging on Sherlock's bed, (which was often more preferable since Jim's appearance in their room that night many weeks ago) studying away, wrapped in one another's arms as the bitter coldness seeped its way into the winter air.

They had not seen or heard of Moriarty in weeks now, and they had not yet decided whether that was a good or bad thing. Whilst they were both more than happy to have avoided Jim's dark eyes and dangerously soft voice for any period of time, they were also conscious of the fact that Jim Moriarty did not simply 'give up'.

This was not a waving of the white flag. This was the signalling of a war.

They had however, seen Moriarty just once since the whole coffee shop incident. But he had not been alone. He had in fact been in the company of a well built, fair haired boy who had broad, square shoulders and a would-be-handsome face had it not been for the constant sneer he maintained on his lips. His eyes were mean and sharp, throwing threatening glances towards anyone who even attempted a glance at Moriarty. Apart from when his eyes were trained on Moriarty himself, which they often were, wide and eager, like a dog watching his master, readily awaiting instruction.

The pair were huddled together under a tall tree in the grounds, speaking in low voices. The fair haired boy's eyes never leaving Moriarty's, squinting as though he were straining with the sheer effort of thought. Moriarty seemed to be maintaining an air of indifference; glancing around the grounds, looking bored.

Sherlock and John were walking through the grounds at this time, one Sunday afternoon. The grounds of Mythwater were large and well kept. The main building was made of grey stone and stood tall, slightly withered, but holding a timeless sort of beauty to it all the same.

Opposite the school was a large oval lake, surrounded by a narrow path and separated from the large school building by a collection of tall oak trees. It was under one of these oak trees that Moriarty and his acquaintance were stood.

Sherlock and John were down by the lake, walking along the path; Sherlock collecting different grass samples and happily nattering on about their patterns of growth and light absorption, John walking beside him, smiling fondly, not really listening to Sherlock's words and their meanings so much as the sound of them as they left his lips in that beautifully rich baritone.

As they were walking, Sherlock suddenly came to an abrupt stop and a coldness filtered through his eyes. John, seeing this sudden change of mood, followed Sherlock's line of sight and saw with grim realisation what had been the cause of Sherlock's halt.

Suddenly Sherlock was grabbing John's hand and pulling him closer towards Jim and his stranger, under one of the other many trees scattering the grounds. They stood silently, bodies close, breaths forming little clouds of fog in the bitter air. They listened intently, attempting to hear the quiet conversation of the two boys a few trees away from them.

But as they watched, Moriarty suddenly stiffened and his eyes strayed towards them accusingly. Sherlock quickly shoved John behind him into the tree painfully. And as Moriarty saw who it was that was spying on him, he relaxed and a slow smile spread across his face. He shushed the boy stood next to him with a single, sharp movement of his hand and then winked at Sherlock and walked away, his stranger following after him quickly, remaining at his heel.

Sherlock watched as they walked away, keeping a vise like grip on John's chest, pinning him to the tree, out of sight. Only once he could no longer see them did he bring his gaze back to John, releasing him.

"What the _hell_ was that for?" John huffed, frowning up at him.

"The last time we saw Moriarty, he thought he had destroyed our relationship, yes?"

John looked down at his feet. "Yeah."

"Well surely it would be handy to allow him to remain with that belief?"

"But why? Sherlock we should be showing him that he can't break us! Not giving in out of fear that he-" But Sherlock cut him off;

"No John. Not out of fear. Out of _tactic_. We let Moriarty think he has broken us. We let him think he is one step ahead, when really he is three steps behind because he has done no such thing in fact I believe his actions have only brought us…_closer_. Well…I mean I certainly feel that way but…"

Now Sherlock was the one looking down at his feet. But John just smiled at him and stretched out a hand to tilt Sherlock's chin up with his thumb gently. Sherlock still did not meet his eyes so John placed a hand around his waist and pulled him closer saying "Hey, Sherlock look at me." And he did; eyes wide and vulnerable – worried he'd said too much.

"You're right. He did bring us closer. _Much_ closer." And he pulled him towards him again by the hip, to demonstrate his point. "He tried to break us, and only made us _stronger_. Just don't go shoving me up against trees again." John smiled, beginning to walk away but Sherlock had other ideas. He pushed John back up against the tree pinning him to it with strong, lean arms. John's breath hitched and he looked up at Sherlock, eyes darkening, running a tongue along his bottom lip. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him playfully. He then leaned down to whisper in John's ear; "Really? Are you sure? Because it seems to me that you are quite enjoying it." John gasped quietly, but Sherlock heard it, and then John's lips found his in a desperate kiss.

* * *

As strange as Moriarty's seemingly new found friendship was, no actions had followed it and Sherlock and John had decided to put it aside for the time being. After all, it was nearly Christmas and they weren't about to let Moriarty ruin that for them as well.

Not that Sherlock had ever really cared much for Christmas. He had never had much interest in family celebrations at all. They just ensued awkward dinners sat at long tables with Mycroft rambling on about his new job in the government and all the economic troubles. His mother staring into her plate blankly, fiddling with her food but never eating anything. His father watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes, before shouting at his wife to _'God damned eat something already'. _

His mother would flinch at his harsh words and then get up, sharing a sorrowful glance at her sons before glaring at her husband and leaving the room. Those were the kind of nights where she wouldn't leave her room for days after that.

Their father would then mutter an excuse about work and leave too, retiring to his study and finding solace in his collection of crystal glasses holding strong amber liquids.

Mycroft too would give a long suffering sigh and get up, saying sombrely "Merry Christmas Sherlock." Leaving Sherlock sat alone at the long table, with nothing but his own reflection in the polished mahogany for company.

So you see Christmas was not a time of family for Sherlock. It was a time of solitude. And, over time, Sherlock began to prefer it that way.

That was, however, until the day that Sherlock Holmes met John Watson.

Unbeknownst to them at the time, their lives had changed from that very first moment they met in the circle, sat on the bench side by side, slowly seeping into one another's lives unconsciously. They had changed each other, skewed one another's paths, now heading into an unfamiliar destination. Unknown. But brilliant. The rest of their lives were subject to the result of a fantastic, fated accident and they couldn't be happier for it.

Now the Christmas holidays were approaching and all Sherlock could think of was how he was going to make it the best Christmas of John's life.

But there was a problem. They hadn't actually discussed the holidays yet.

* * *

It was the day before the Christmas holidays and Sherlock and John were lying on Sherlock's bed lazily. John's head was resting on Sherlock's chest listening to the rhythmic beat of his heart. He also had one arm draped over his chest, fingers tracing lightly over Sherlock's arm. Sherlock had one hand threaded through John's hair, the other resting on the bed under John's gentle touch.

They lay in contented silence. The holidays began tomorrow but today they were given a half day so that they could pack for leaving tomorrow if they wished to return home for Christmas.

Sherlock and John still hadn't discussed the holidays yet – or as they both saw it; 'the leaving one another problem'. They had not spent a single day apart throughout their term at Mythwater and now they were about to be forced apart for two whole weeks.

Both of them were contemplating this as John said;

"It's the Christmas holidays tomorrow."

"Yes."

"You'll be returning to your home and I mine."

"Excellent deduction John."

John sighed and sat up, looking down at Sherlock who was now giving him a quizzical look.

"Well what if you didn't."

Sherlock contemplated this. "Then where exactly do you propose I go?"

"With me. To my house. For Christmas." John suddenly couldn't take the weight of the Sherlockian stare he was being faced with, and he averted his eyes to the quilt, fiddling with it nervously. It was at that point that his head kindly decided to drown him in infinite insecurities; _What if he says no? Why would he want to spend it with you anyway? You're just boring old John Watson…_

"I'd like that." Sherlock said, meaning it and he couldn't stop his lips from forming into a small smile as John looked at him wide eyed, saying; "What, really?"

"Most definitely. In fact, I have a proposition for you. How about we spend the first week of the holidays at your house, for Christmas. But then, for the second week you come to my house, for New Years."

John gaped at him. "You want me to meet your family?"

"Well I thought you'd want to? Don't people do those sort of things in this type of situation? And besides isn't that what you were intending when you asked me over for Christmas?"

"Well…no actually. When you come to my house, my dad won't be there. He goes to visit his own mum at Christmas, and Harry is staying in Nottingham with all her uni friends. So…it would just be us…"

"Oh." Sherlock said, "I see…"

Sherlock shifted slightly and said in a low voice which he knew made John shiver inside "So, that would mean I could do _this" _he leaned his head down and pressed his lips to John's for only a moment, tugging lightly on his lower lip as he pulled back, "Whenever I want?"

John followed Sherlock's enticing lips like metal to a magnet. And Sherlock smiled, pleased.

"Yes." he whispered – as that was all he could manage. "In fact, you could even get a head start on doing that now if you like." He smiled up at him coyly, cheeks slightly flushed and eyes dark. Sherlock thought this was his favourite facial expression of John – dizzy on lust for Sherlock.

He pressed his forehead against John's, studying his eyes and murmured "I think I might just take you up on that offer." And their lips met once again.

* * *

The next day they had their bags packed and were stood outside the school gates with their luggage, waiting for a taxi.

They stood huddled together under a large umbrella, supplied by Mycroft, on his first day back, before he left because; _"A man is always more prepared to weather any storm life may throw at him, when he has an umbrella to battle the ones nature throws first."_

Sherlock took the umbrella just to shut him up, rolling his eyes as he did so. But now he was quite thankful of Mycroft and his umbrella at this moment. The rain was pelting down vehemently and the wind was biting. So they stood pressed against one another under their shield, hands secretly joined in one of Sherlock's many deep pockets. Just because they had to hide their relationship didn't mean they couldn't hold hands secretly from time to time.

However it did mean that they had to leave an hour before everyone else, skipping lunch, so as to leave before the rest of the school filed out. They also had to keep an eye out for the ominous gaze of Moriarty.

But soon enough a sleek black car pulled up in front of them, and the door closest to them opened invitingly.

John looked at the car, confused. "Er...that doesn't look like a taxi...more like a bloody limo...Sherlock what-"

But Sherlock was already striding up towards the car, letting out a sound of deep annoyance. Shouting into the car; "Oh I don't _believe_ this. Mycroft for _God's_ sake. Have you _seriously_ got nothing better to do than interfere in my personal life?"

"Mycroft?" John asked, more to himself as Sherlock wasn't listening.

"Sorry, Sherlock - do you know this person?" John asked as he too approached the car; looking in at the man dressed smartly and smiling tightly at Sherlock.

"Well of course. Did I not just say his name? Ugh. Mycroft what are you doing here? No actually, I know _exactly_ what you're doing here so you can piss off now. Because you're not needed."

The man in the car sighed and said; "Hello John. Sorry but I don't believe my little brother is up for introductions this morning. I am Sherlock's older brother."

"Older but non the wiser." Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at him and John realised this must be a famous Holmesian trait.

"Get in the car Sherlock."

"You cannot make me."

"No, true. However I can attempt to _convince_ you." Mycroft smiled up at him. But it wasn't a pleasant expression. It looked to John like it rather pained him to twist his lips into such a shape.

Sherlock only glared at him. So Mycroft turned to John.

"So, _John Watson_, I believe. What exactly has my little brother told you about himself. I am sure, judging by the amount of time the two of you have been spending together recently you should know each other like the back of your hands by now."

"Well...I erm...how would you know we've been spending time together? And sorry how do you know my name?" John frowned at him, squaring his shoulders. He didn't like this man very much. And he could almost taste the tension cursing between him and Sherlock.

"Because John he's a nosy git who takes more pleasure in spying on other peoples lives rather than living his sorry own one." Sherlock spat, never relenting his glower directed at his brother.

"Now, now Sherlock." Mycroft warned, almost teasingly. "No need to get all upset."

"I am not _upset_. I am simply sick of your interference."

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock and then attempted for the second time to address John. "So John. You transferred here just this year I believe."

John looked at Sherlock for a second, unsure, but Sherlock just kept scowling at Mycroft. So John turned back to Mycroft and answered "Yes."

"Yes, quite unusual that. Not very often managed either, with such a popular school...And yet you gave no reason for such a drastic change." John stiffened.

"Mycroft." Sherlock warned.

"In fact it says that even though he gave no reason, your father was quite insistent during the appeal and _very keen_ for you to move here." At the mention of his father John clenched his hands into tight fists and he looked away from this seemingly omniscient man.

"It turned out that it was your excellent talent in the area of science which granted you your place here... it also says you have a dream of becoming a doctor, you want to heal people. Help them." Mycroft stared at John unflinchingly. "Interesting."

John eyes didn't leave Mycroft's steady gaze as he said "Sherlock. How does he know all that? What is this?"

John didn't like the look Mycroft was giving him. It was like he knew something, everything. It was terrifying.

"Don't worry John, it's nothing special. Anyone can find out anything when they know the right people." Sherlock said with distaste.

"It's just your Father, sister and you at home am I right?" John's eyes widened slightly as he steeled himself and answered; "Yes."

"But you don't appear to have a very good relationship with either of them. In fact it even says here that you turned up with a nasty bruise on your face on the first day."

John felt a sudden coldness begin to grow inside him. He ground his teeth and said "Right. I've had enough of this. Nice to meet you." And began walking away. As Sherlock called after him and followed on after him he heard Mycroft call "Dear me Sherlock, I had thought you'd have known better." But Sherlock ignored him. " He's hiding things from you Sherlock. Just think, how well do you really know John Watson?"

Sherlock paused just for a second and turned to Mycroft, saying "Piss off." Before running after John and getting into the cab which had finally showed up to take them back to John's.

Mycroft closed the door of his sleek, black car and sat watching them get into the cab.

_I will find out what you're hiding John Watson. And when I do, you will discover that you picked the wrong family to deceive._

* * *

**Well! That's it for chapter 11! Again I am so sorry it has taken me so long to update! Unfortunately life has selfishly gotten in the way. But I have ideas now for the next few chapters as I have finally moved on to the Christmas holidays part, so that should mean no writer's block! But then again...no promises on that one. Especially because -without giving anything away- I think these next few chapters are going to be the hardest to write yet!**

**So, as always, please review and let me know what you think :'D **

**Thanks guys,**

**:D**


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